


That Subtle Wreath

by EvilFluffyBiteyThing



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Tudor Era, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Family Drama, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2020-07-09 22:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 384,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFluffyBiteyThing/pseuds/EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: To the outside world, Queen Anne - and all about her - seems to be a fading star in the night skies: she has lost the heir to the throne, and her King is courting one of her own ladies in waiting. It is not so much a case of if she falls - but when.But then, a shocking turn of events leaves her a widow - and the mother of a Queen less than three years old. With few friends, and many enemies, she must turn to a man that she despises in order to survive, and hold a Kingdom together for England's first true Queen Regnant.





	1. Empty Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on FF.net - but about time I put it here, too! Huge thanks to AllegoriesinMediasRes for challenging me to write it. This is partly your fault, you know! Also thanks to Anna Taure for her wonderful 'A Land for Ladies', which I read on FF.net and hugely enjoyed, which also partly inspired me to try my version of this alternate scenario.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! If you've already read it, hope you enjoy again!

**'The Funeral'**

**John Donne**

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm

Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;

The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,

For 'tis my outward soul,

Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,

Will leave this to control

And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall

Through every part

Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,

Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art

Have from a better brain,

Can better do'it; except she meant that I

By this should know my pain,

As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,

For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,

If into other hands these relics came;

As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a soul can do,

So, 'tis some bravery,

That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

* * *

PART 1

**WIDOW**

* * *

Chapter 1

_Empty Arms_

The chamber is quiet, the only sound a soft crackling of the large fire that keeps the January chill at bay. The thick hangings over the wainscoting are still present, while the great curtains that cover the windows remain closed - shrouding the room in darkness but for the gentle illumination from the fireplace.

The need to enclose a woman in her confinement would be stifling in the heat of summer; but now it is winter, and she is grateful for the sense of being cocooned from the world outside, as she smiles softly into the face of her son. Her boy. Her prince.

He is perfect - eyes closed as he sleeps softly beside her, the faintest hints of that glorious red-gold hair of his father's line, rather than the darker brown of her own lineage. Tiny fingers clenched around her forefinger, and - were she to unwrap the swaddling cloth - equally perfect toes. Unnamed as yet - for it shall be the privilege of the King to name him - but soon to be introduced to all who gathered as vultures in hopes of her failure, as she emerges from her chambers triumphant to witness the great joust that was cancelled when she granted her King a daughter, not a son.

Now that she has borne a boy, there shall be none who can bring her down - for she has done what her predecessor failed to do…she has given her King the son she promised…

"Majesty?"

The voice interrupts her train of thought, and she shifts slightly in the bed. No - that is not the right thing to do…

And the moment of bliss is lost.

Slowly, painfully, Queen Anne turns to face the one who shattered the illusion and forced her to return to reality. Had she the energy, she would address the woman with sharp words - but she has none. Not even her most beloved friend, Margery Horsman, is immune from the storms of her temper when it is unleashed to its fullest. Today, however, the storm is dulled.

Her arms are empty. All that remains of the boy that she was carrying is the slightly emerging dome of her belly as the babe within reached his third month. Worse - that hideous abortion had occurred on the very day that her predecessor had been interred; finally dead and gone - no longer a shadow over her head. Imagine what the spite-mongers of the Court shall be making of _that_. That poor little one: she had not yet even felt his first kick…

"Margery…" she says, quietly; dully. What point is there in emotion? She has used all that she thought that she had - hurling wild rage at the man who brought her to this.

That Seymour strumpet is no longer here - bundled away in the night, all hugger-mugger in the hopes of freeing her from the taint of scandal; but Anne is not blind to the movement of gossip within the Court of Henry the Eighth, she knows that the word will be out.

_She found them herself! Queen Anne came upon the King with the Lady Seymour upon his lap, kissing her like a new-wed wife!_

Her eyes dead, she gazes at the hand whose fingers - in her dream - were grasped tightly by her son. All that is there now is the remains of the gash that was cut into her palm by the chain of that damned locket that Seymour had about her neck.

How dared he? How _dared_ he? She knows that men do not consider the marriage vows they make before God to be binding - not, at least, the vow to remain faithful - and Henry was no exception. That women must abide by those same vows is unjust - but she has done so; and without complaint, for she had given him her love. And her reward for her constancy? Humiliation at the hands of the Seymour wench, and an empty womb that once held a Prince.

She feels the mattress sink slightly as Margery sits alongside her, "Majesty, are you hungry? Might I send to the kitchens for a dish of broth and some wine?"

"No. I am not hungry." She answers, shortly. No - that is unfair; Margery has been her closest friend in all of her times of triumph, and her times of trial, "Forgive me, Madge, I meant no harm. I am very tired."

Margery takes her hand, gently, "I am truly sorry, Majesty." She knows - all do - that this babe was her best chance of regaining her husband's waning faith. What does her Queen have now to salvage the wreckage of her dying marriage? The King is hardly likely to agree to tryaz again. He has another woman in his sights. Queen Anne might think the Seymour chit banished from Court by the scandal of her being caught in the arms of another woman's husband - but that could not be further from the truth. She does not dare to tell Anne that the King is already making plans to return to Wiltshire to visit the trollop's father on the pretext of maintaining a long-held friendship. None at court are blind, however. It could not be more obvious that their King is set upon courting Lady Jane - and that Queen Anne's star is beginning to falter in the midst of the Courtly firmament. Whether the Queen, and her ambitious family, can turn that about and restore themselves to favour remains to be seen.

But what does that matter to Anne now? Her mind is not set upon fading fortunes - it is instead shadowed by grief. Mourning for the loss of the babe for which she longed not as a Queen, but as a mother. Oh, holy Father - if only Elizabeth were here now, vital, alive…but no, she is far away at Hatfield, and there is no way to retrieve her without the consent of the King. Consent that he is far from likely to grant. He has not come back to her since she struck out at him in her grief and rage.

_You have no one to blame for this but yourself!_

How can he not see that his infidelity caused her anguish? And that anguish caused the loss of her child? No - he has never accepted the blame for anything; not even when he was willing to all-but abase himself before her when he was so eager to claim her hand. In all matters of procreation, any failure is solely the fault of the woman - supposedly the curse of Eve when she plucked the fruit from the forbidden tree.

Seated beside her, Margery sighs, "Majesty - forgive me if I am too forward, but should you not rise from your bed? The doctors are content that there shall be no harm to you if you do so - and…and the longer that you remain here, the harder it shall be for you to return to the Court."

She pauses, waiting for the flash of temper that always follows an exhortation that Anne do something she does not wish to. But it does not come.

"Call my women." Anne says, still quietly, "I shall rise."

Margery nods, relieved. The first hurdle is crossed - now to see if it is possible to salvage the marriage.

* * *

The atmosphere in the Presence Chamber is vastly different to that of the Queen's Apartments. The storm of the King's rage has passed - replaced now by a determination to eradicate all remembrance of the horrible tempest that exploded a mere three days back. If he grieves for the loss of his son, then he does not show it. Perhaps he does - but the roar of laughter he emits at a courtier's crude joke suggests otherwise.

There is but one man in that rowdy space that sees deeper. Thomas Cromwell has served his King from the first days of that upheaval that is referred to even now as 'the King's Great Matter', and has done so diligently and well. His seemingly endless capacity for hard work, a sharp contrast to the taint of his low birth and obscure origins, has ensured that Cromwell has risen from little more than a lawyer and clerk to the most trusted politician in the Court. He may not hold one of the five great Offices of State, but all know that he is the King's Chief Minister and one of his most trusted officials, regardless of whether or not he wears a collar of esses.

To his entirely more experienced eye, there is an edge of forced gaiety about Henry's laughter and jesting. He is sore over the loss of his son, and angry at the woman who robbed him of that desperately wanted heir. Most seem to have forgotten the rumours that escaped when the King attempted to end his marriage to Anne barely two years ago - though his intention was to abandon his second wife without being obliged to return to his first. She overcame that near disaster - but Cromwell knows well that the chances of her overcoming _this_ disaster are vanishingly small. Not while there is a pliant, fair-haired woman in the picture. Jane is all that Anne is not: lightly educated, retiring, soft-voiced and unhesitating to bend to Henry's will. Traits that are hardly welcome in a mistress, but ideal in a wife. Anne, on the other hand, is all fire and intelligence - and she could not be the Queen that Henry, and convention, demands.

Despite his own arguments with the woman, he has never failed to admire her for her intelligence and political acumen. A Queen as capable as she could have ruled at her husband's side almost as an equal - and she would not have been the first to do so: an Isabella to his Ferdinand. Even another Katherine in at least some measure. For Henry is not a man willing to share power, and that refusal has been demonstrated over and over again in the midst of heated confrontations with a wife who cannot bring herself to be brought to heel.

Guarded as ever, Cromwell's eyes sweep back and forth across the chamber, taking in all and marking it. Norfolk is near the throne, of course, though his expression is tense - held in the dilemma of waiting to see if his relatives can rescue themselves from the yawning abyss that lies ahead of them, whether he should abandon them as they fall into it, or whether he should step behind them and push them in. He may well be the highest ranked Peer in England, but Thomas Howard is no more immune from the consequences of displeasing his King than any other in the room.

Nearer still, however, is Charles Brandon of Suffolk, who guards his proximity to the King jealously; though the greatest threat to his presence at Court is the King's temper - which is largely the same for all who stand in this chamber. Their friendship is the strongest that Henry has, though that has not prevented him from banishing Suffolk from Court on occasion.

Over there, by one of the wide windows that look out of the hall towards the river, are Wiltshire and Rochford, father and brother of the Queen. They, too, look tense; and with good reason, for much of their power and prestige is tied to that of Anne. If she falls, then they must act quickly to disentangle themselves from the bonds that hold them to her. Cromwell frowns to himself; what is familial loyalty in comparison to keeping hold of an Earldom?

The King shouts with laughter again - a strange, barking sound utterly unlike that which would normally display amusement. There is no doubting that he would repudiate her here and now if he could - but his pride will not permit it. After the enormous upheaval of his determination to secure Anne's hand in marriage, to admit that he had erred in doing so would be all but unendurable to him. No - he can't repudiate her, nor can the marriage be easily annulled given the effort to make it valid. Even though there is no longer any possibility of his being forced back to Katherine, there is still the opinion of the other Kings of Christendom - who shall see his misfortune as just punishment for banishing his brother's widow.

Cromwell sighs inwardly. He knows that a means to end the marriage will be required sooner or later - and that it shall be his task to secure it. And he shall do it, too - for he has reasons of his own to send that woman packing from court.

 _That_ woman.

God, her mind is remarkable - and her determination to be more than a mere decoration with a crown upon her head. But that is not the role of Henry's Queen; he will not permit her any greater one than to be an adjunct to his glory. If only she could _see_ that.

He smiles to himself, remembering her threat to have him executed. At the time, he had felt a slight chill in the pit of his stomach - and had had to convince himself for nearly an hour afterwards that she could not have it done. Such spirit - such temper. Had he been ten years younger…

But he is not. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he redirects his thoughts to speculating upon what might follow the end of that pregnancy. While it sets him in a stronger position than hers, he would not have wanted it to be like this. No - not at the cost of a babe's life. Henry does not see Anne's intelligence as an asset to his Government. At the moment, he does not see her as an asset, either.

But until someone can find a means to remove her, she remains his wife. Until death do they part.

* * *

"Play on, Mr Smeaton!" the Queen's voice is bright, but brittle - and none in her Presence Chamber truly know where they stand in the face of her increasingly erratic temper.

His expression nervous, the young lutenist returns to his instrument and begins to pluck out a cheerful dance tune that seems so utterly at odds with the oppressive atmosphere around them. Sitting near the fire, embroidery in hand, Jane Rochford looks about the room with a tired, jaded eye.

She would rather be anywhere but here - one of her other homes would be infinitely preferable - but George is insistent that they must remain at Court, and thus she must dance attendance upon his sister. He is rarely in her company these days, as he must now do all that he can to ensure that the Queen's failure does not impact unduly upon his own Court career.

It is a failure, all right: one does not promise sons to a King lightly - and if one does so, one had better deliver. That Queen Anne has committed such a foolish error is of little interest to Lady Rochford. Her marriage is as close to the edge as that of the Queen - bound by vows to a man who wishes she was not. That George enjoys carnal knowledge with other women is hardly unknown to her - he has done so almost from the day they wed. He has no fear of flaunting his affairs about the Court, and seems not even to notice the humiliation she must endure as those about her look upon her with pity. Forced to attend his sister while he tups any woman who takes his fancy. God forbid that she should do the same in return.

Before she returns her eyes to her work, she looks up towards the Queen, to see that Anne is looking back at her. Oddly, there is no hostility there now - for once she had viewed her sister-in-law with great dislike. Instead, there is something else - a sense of sympathy, or perhaps understanding?

No - the Queen's loyalty to her brother would never permit her to do such a thing. It must be her imagination. Briskly, Jane takes up her needle again, and carefully inserts stitches into the motif that she is embroidering upon a handkerchief. How ironic that it is a gift for the father-in-law who cares so little about her that he has spoken not a word to her since the day she stood beside his son at the altar.

Seated beneath her canopy of estate, Anne watches her sister-in-law avoid her gaze. She is not offended by it - after all, how many of her ladies can look her in the eye? In the days since her loss, the King has not once requested her presence, and she dare not demand to enter his. Not until she can be certain that the ground upon which she stands is firm, and will not shift beneath her feet.

But she must do it - she must return to his presence. If she does not, then she is lost. What use is a wife who has not borne a King a son? He removed one wife who could not do so from his presence to install another who claimed that she could - what is to stop him doing the same again? She cannot even turn to the man with whom she once hoped to bring about the greatest of religious reforms. That door was slammed shut, and locked, the moment that she saw where the monies from the closure of the smaller monastic houses were being spent.

But who can speak for her now? Not her uncle - nor her father. They have their own interests to defend, and she has no doubt that they now see her as a threat to those interests. They know, as she does, that their riches and honours were earned for them by the King's slavish love for her.

A love that may not even still live.

 _No_ , she tells herself, _it must live, for mine still lives._ In spite of all, she loves him - she has always loved him. Even now, she longs to give him the son that he desires above all. The son that she promised him in the dark of the night when she finally set down her barriers, and they lay together for the first time. It is not the first time that she has been obliged to engineer a reconciliation, after all. No - she will do it again. Now that the Seymour slut is gone from her presence, and gone under a cloud of scandal, too, what is to stand in her way?

Other than his anger, of course.

Her helplessness frustrates her endlessly - for until she is summoned into his presence, she can do nothing; but he has not summoned her. Sooner or later, of course, he shall have to - for if he does not, then tongues shall wag even more freely than they do now. His pride shall force him to do it - even if through gritted teeth.

Her expression benign, but her stomach a churning maelstrom, she reaches for her own embroidery hoop, and returns her attention to the elaborate satin stitch being worked upon the cuff of a glove. The pounce lines that remain are a little smudged, but that shall eventually be covered by the stitching…

Her needle comes through the silk ground too quickly, and she pricks her finger. Startled, she curses under her breath, and looks up sharply, in case her profanity has been overheard. Oh God - look at them all; it is as though they are waiting for her to die…

"Mr Smeaton!" she calls again, startling everyone, "An Almain, if you please." She rises to her feet, and looks across to Lady Shelton, who quickly ushers the ladies to their feet and supervises the pushing of the chairs back to the walls to make room for the dance. There are no men present - but there do not need to be. Nor does she care if any pass and wonder why she is dancing at such a time: anything to break this ghastly silence. Perhaps they should be dancing something more sober, like a Saraband or a Pavane - but they are quite downcast enough as it is.

Somehow, despite all, she is able to lose herself in the intricacies of the steps; and, for the first time in days, is able to smile at least a little. Yes - sooner or later he shall call her to his presence, and she shall flatter and charm him until they are reconciled. She has done so before, and she shall do so again.

* * *

Sitting at his desk in his small suite of offices, Cromwell sighs and wonders how much longer the Royal couple can continue to avoid each other. He looks across his miniature domain at the various clerks who are undertaking their weekly inventory of papers to ascertain which should be held here at Placentia, and which should be transported to the primary offices at Whitehall for archiving. If they did not do so, then they would all be drowning in paper.

Over the last two weeks, Henry has hunted, hawked, hunted again, shouted abuse at those who attempt to play tennis in his presence, hawked again and is only here in the Palace now because the weather has broken and there is no prey to be found in the heavy drifts of snow that have fallen over the last few days. God knows where they found prey as it is at this time of the year.

Shaking his head over such wanton carnage, Cromwell reaches for his quill again and continues setting down figures for the report he is compiling. In spite of the sums that are coming in from the smaller religious houses as they are closed, the King seems endlessly keen upon exceeding them in his quest to acquire the finest garments, arms and God-knows-what-else. The Queen's household is hardly better. If her Majesty is truly so keen to use the income from the religious houses to ease the hardships of the poor, then her most worthwhile and useful act might be to curtail the ridiculous degree of expenditure required to maintain the enormous staff retained to see to her each and every need. He looks across at the latest requests for payment that have been received - God above, how many more ostrich feather fans does she need? What does she do with them all - eat them?

The thought of Queen Anne actually attempting to consume a feathered fan is so ridiculous to him that he snorts with amusement, which causes the clerks to look up in surprise. The sound of footsteps sends them straight back to work as the owner of those footsteps makes his way past them towards the Minister's desk.

"Mr Rich." Cromwell says, without looking up. He dislikes the man in front of him, and knows that the feeling is entirely mutual.

"Mr Cromwell." Sir Richard Rich ignores the mild rudeness, "I have just completed the work to destroy all papers pertaining to the possible outcome of the King's accident at the joust last month." Without being invited, he seats himself, and gratefully accepts a cup of wine from a steward from which he takes a rather hasty gulp.

Rather than answer, Cromwell grunts slightly - a vague _harrumph_ that serves as an acknowledgement. The amount of paperwork _that_ incident caused led to the wastage of a great deal of paper and ink. Thank God they didn't get as far as making fair copies on vellum. But then, all praises to the Highest, the King did not die. Had he done so, then they would be under the heel of Lord Protector Norfolk by now, for certain. Either that or some ghastly war akin to the great anarchy, or the dread war of the Plantagenet cousins that only ended at the hands of Henry's father.

"He needs a son. And soon." Rich observes, unnecessarily. As if Cromwell didn't know that.

"He has one. Of sorts."

"What, Fitzroy?" Rich scoffs, "And you think England would accept a bastard on the throne?" he is not fool enough to say _that_ too loudly.

"If there is no alternative, then yes." Cromwell looks up at the Solicitor General, "You know as well as I that no woman has ever ruled this realm in her own right."

"There is no law that forbids it. This is not France."

And again, something that he does not need to be told. Even in the absence of the Salic Law in England, if the alternative to Henry's bastard boy is a mere girl, then England shall accept him. Besides, the reason that they have done nothing to have him legitimised was washed out of the Queen's womb two weeks ago. If that bastard son is the only son that he has, then so be it.

"They may reconcile." Cromwell reminds Rich.

"And you truly believe that?"

"I should rather believe that than deal with the paperwork required to effect an alternative."

"Even after she threatened to shorten you by a head?"

Cromwell glares at him. Does he not appreciate the damage that the first 'Great Matter' wrought upon the Crown? After all the effort to get Henry married to his brother's widow, only for him to turn to the very argument they'd been obliged to circumvent in order to get rid of her? Not only did it leave Henry in a weak position with his fellow princes, it damaged his standing with the people of England, for Queen Katherine had been much loved. Queen Anne has never been able to overturn that antipathy. The letters from the Imperial Ambassador that he has had intercepted by his spies have never ceased to refer to her as 'the Concubine', and there are far worse insults spoken outside the confines of the Palace. If she is to survive this setback, then she must act quickly - but until the King permits her to enter his presence, she is helpless.

Should he risk it? Attempt to find some way to persuade his Majesty to at least make some pretence at reconciling with his Queen? Things cannot continue as they are; the longer that they do so, the more likely it is that he shall be asked to find some means to end a marriage that cannot easily be dissolved.

Oh, the actual _dissolving_ of the marriage would be easy enough - it would be a simple matter for Cranmer to declare it null and void - but how to do it without causing a scandal across Europe - nay, all of Christendom? That is the sticking point.

Sighing to himself, he sets his papers into a coffer and locks it. Besides, it is time to sup, and he is hungry. To his dismay, Rich rises too - clearly intending to follow. Hopefully he shall find someone else to sit with in the Hall.

He is still wrestling with the intractable problem of ending the King's marriage as he enters the Hall. To his surprise, however, there is a large consort of musicians tuning their viols and warming up their cornetts in the gallery, and the degree to which people have over-dressed themselves suggests an unexpected air of festivity. Yes - he can see Wiltshire lurking near the dais, and most of the ambassadors are present in the crowd. It seems that the King has decided to sup with his Queen after all. Either he has indeed decided to reconcile with her, or he is acting to quell rumours that serve only to damage his reputation.

To his relief, Rich has wandered off to talk to someone else, and he is free to observe as he prefers to do. Rochford is across the hall, altogether too close to a young woman who seems quite charmed by his attentions, while Norfolk is looking far less insecure than he did last week. If Norfolk feels safe, then it seems likely that the King is indeed intending to observe his marriage vows.

A steward clatters the foot of his staff upon the floor, "My Lords! His Majesty the King, and Her Majesty the Queen!"

All turn to the doorway that leads from the King's Apartments, and bow formally as the door opens to admit Henry and Anne. Cromwell knows his King's moods well - and he can see even from his position amidst the crowd that the reconciliation is superficial. Anne is here to stem rumours that she is dead, or that he has had her confined illegally. No more, no less. His expression is cold and set, his movements stiff.

She knows it, too. The Queen is pale, her eyes flitting back and forth as she looks at all around her. Tonight, she must grovel and pander to her husband - for her very future is now at stake. Dear Christ - does Wiltshire truly think that he is secure? His expression is smug and proud, for the King and Queen are together in public again. Can he not see that they stand only as close together as they must in order to avoid comments? If he cannot, then he is a fool - and a blind one, at that.

To be fair to him, Henry plays his part well: bowing to his Queen and inviting her to sit before he does. But as the trumpets brazenly fanfare in the first remove, his conversation is largely with others, and he rarely seems to look at her.

Taking a seat at the table reserved for the Privy Councillors, Cromwell sighs and turns his attention to the dishes set there. It is a show - an artifice that they are portraying. Unless she can turn all about, and win him back, she is lost.

And he shall be her executioner.


	2. The Height of Artifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented and offered kudos - I really appreciate it!

Snow is now lying thickly across the gardens and parkland that stretch behind Placentia. Sitting in a finely upholstered chair, sipping from a cup of warmed wine, Wiltshire allows himself a sense of relief that the King has finally admitted Anne back into his presence again. Now it is for her to tease him back into her bed, and conceive a son at the first opportunity. His own survival depends upon it.

It is of no concern to him whether or not Anne is ready, or willing, to undertake such a deadly dance - or even whether such a thing is even possible. She is married to the King - it is therefore her responsibility to get with child again, and to make sure not only that the child is a boy, but also that, this time, he lives.

God - if she were not now the property of the King, he would have beaten such a concession out of her. The fate of the family, its prestige and its wealth - oh yes, its wealth - rests entirely upon the fulfilment of his daughter's promise. That he is a master of his own destiny is not a matter that passes his mind: as a man, he has opportunities to survive and prosper that are beyond the reach of his daughter. But much of his most rapid and recent ascendancy is built upon the foundation of the King's love for her, and if that falters, the structure cannot be certain to stand. Men died upon the scaffold in the battle to get the crown upon her head - and there is nothing to stop more men suffering that exact same fate if there is a battle to remove it. He is determined that he shall not be one of them.

"Damn her." He mutters, crossly. All was so secure - so certain. He held a primary place at the Council Table, his son was prospering in the light of the King's favour and his daughter was in the process of bringing forth the heir that would cement their positions for the rest of the reign and beyond. Until she allowed it to die. God above - _all_ men take mistresses. What the hell was she thinking, throwing a childish tantrum over her husband's dallying with another woman? Does she not realise that marital vows are only binding for the wife?

He looks up as the door opens and Rochford steps into the Chamber, "What news?"

"No news." Wiltshire sips at his wine again, "She is back in his presence again, and she shall win him over."

"Do you think she can?"

"She can if she knows what's good for her."

Rochford looks out of the window, pensively. Regardless of his own desire to grab what he can for himself as the family profits from their proximity to the throne, he has always been close to his sister, and she to him. He knows that his own wife has whined to Anne on occasion about his philandering - only for Anne to defend him - and he chastised the tiresome creature for her presumption as soon as his sister warned him of her betrayal. God, he loathes the wretched woman. She is no longer of sufficient class to improve his own position - and he would give anything to remove her and find a woman of higher rank.

"Once she has done so, and we are restored in the King's favour, we can dislodge the baleful influence of those bloody Seymours." He muses, "If that old fool wants to palm off his milk-pale daughter upon a man of rank, perhaps I shall repudiate one Jane and replace her with another Jane."

"You shall not." Wiltshire growls, "We are scandal-ridden enough as it is. I will not lose all that I have gained through the foolish mishaps of my children. You benefit from _my_ rank, George. Not the other way about. Do not forget it."

"And do we both not benefit from Anne's rank?" Rochford counters. It cannot be denied - no amount of hard work and making oneself useful can accumulate power as quickly as a relative made royal.

Wiltshire glares, but does not comment. Whether he likes it or not, he knows that George is speaking the truth. It is a truth that is whispered behind their backs in corridors and private chambers - the fate of the Boleyns is tied entirely to that of the Queen. Should she fall, there is little chance of either father or son escaping those bonds and retaining the favour of the King. Were that Seymour girl to be sat upon the throne, her rapacious family would be quick to benefit from it, and seek to oust anyone bearing the tainted name _Bullen_ , frenchified or not.

"Then she shall do it. She shall ensure that John Seymour never sets his girl up in her place." Setting the wine aside, Wiltshire grasps the arms of his chair and hefts himself to his feet. Damn - too much wine…

"Where are you going?" Rochford asks.

"To speak to the Queen."

* * *

The glove-cuff is almost complete, and Anne sits back from her embroidery frame with a sigh of satisfaction. It may now be possible to gift the pair to her husband after all - an outcome that would have been all but impossible a mere three weeks ago.

She still does not feel entirely secure, and has not yet admitted any men to her apartments, not even to the outermost Presence Chamber. Despite her observance of her marriage vows, and her husband's equal disregard of them, she has seen the differing standards of expectation over such things, and with matters in a state as delicate as they are, she has no wish to add fuel to any unwarranted fires. As soon as she has regained Henry's regard, she shall concentrate upon conceiving again: she promised him a son, and as God is her witness, she intends to keep that promise.

Her ladies sit around her, each absorbed in their own embroideries, though Jane Rochford has abandoned her hoop and is instead practising calligraphy on scraps of rag paper, apparently intending to inscribe a passage from the first epistle of John. She has seen many of those previous attempts scattered across the table, and sighs inwardly at the words - for they echo her own predicament rather more than she would like.

_Beloved, let us love one another, for love commeth of God, and everyone that loveth is borne of God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God: for God is love._

It's a message to George - it must be. Lady Rochford has come to her more than once to seek her aid in persuading her brother to be more faithful to her. She had scoffed at the time - and suggested that her miserable lady in waiting be more patient and wifely. Perhaps even provide him with a son to carry on the family name? Even George had been amused at the thought when she had told him of it. After all, had she not earned the regard of her own husband through the conception of a son?

She chills inside - such hypocrisy; telling her sister-in-law to make her husband be faithful, while she could not perform the same feat with her own. God knows that he has hardly been a constant husband; they have quarrelled over his infidelities more than once; but that moment…actually _finding_ him with another woman. No - that is the worst betrayal of all. He cared so little for her feelings that he was willing to fondle one of her own ladies in waiting in the midst of the day - abandoning all pretence of discretion.

Her musings are brought to a halt by the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, and she looks up, expecting her steward to announce her visitor.

He is not given the opportunity.

The door is opened with such aggression that it swings round to slam into the wall. Heads fly up, and someone lets out a small shriek.

"All of you - out!" Wiltshire's tone will brook no argument. Expressions shocked, the various women and servants hasten to obey, leaving the Earl alone with his daughter.

"Of all the things I asked of you." He says, once all is quiet, "The one, _one_ thing that will save us all - and you destroyed it!"

She does not rise, but remains in her chair, impassive. What can he possibly say that shall hurt her more than that grievous loss?

Angered even more, he strides across the room and leans over her, his hands upon the arms of the chair, "Do I need to remind you of the danger that we face?"

Trapped in the chair, Anne looks up at him, her expression savage, "That _you_ face? What can you know of danger? Does it not even enter your head that each child I carry might bring me to my death? All so that you can continue to preen yourself and call yourself powerful! Do not forget that I am the reason for your ascendancy - and I did so upon my own terms! Have a care how you treat me, _father_ \- I shall regain the King's favour and love, and when I do, I shall rise so far above you that you cannot touch me. I am no longer your property. Do I need to remind _you_ of _that_?"

She is speaking out of turn, and she knows it. It does not become a woman to speak so to a man - particularly one of her own blood - but she is cornered like a cat, and in common with any cat, claws are unleashed in such circumstances.

His eyes vicious, Wiltshire rises and steps away from her. To some, her fiery temper might be alluring, but to him it is - and has always been - a bloody nuisance, "If you do not regain the love of the King, _daughter_ ," he spits back, "Then do not look to me for protection. Should you fall, you shall not take me with you, or your brother. You shall fall alone, and I shall watch as you are repudiated and banished from the Court as nothing more than a common harlot."

So it has come to this, then. Rising from the chair, Anne looks at him almost with new eyes. He has always been a mercenary power-grasper; she knew that from the moment he first dispatched her into royal service. Having a son to succeed him, he has no concern over the welfare of his daughters other than as jewels with which to bribe better men in hopes of gain for himself.

"And you believe that?" she laughs at him, a harsh sound riven with spite, "Believe me, father, I have no intention of falling - but not to save you. No, I shall regain the King's love, and give him a brood of sons - I shall ensure that the line of Tudor shall not falter and fail. I am no longer solely your daughter. I am the Queen of England, and I shall do my duty. Not for _your_ benefit, but for that of the King, and his people."

Wiltshire glares at her. Put in such terms, any argument he might offer in return would sound petty and treacherous, and quite possibly make its way back to the ears of the King. Silenced by that simple statement of loyalty to her husband and her realm, he turns on his heel and stalks out.

Alone again, Anne closes her eyes and sinks back into her chair. Such a Queenly pose - but it has set her a challenge that seems almost insurmountable. She must regain Henry's love, and give him the sons that he demands. Once she has done so, however, the rewards shall be beyond counting. She shall be undisputed - and, as the mother of the heir to the throne, she shall have the power to rule as his equal.

Now all she has to do is believe it.

* * *

"I have the fair copy of the King's proclamations for Lady Day, my Lord."

Cromwell looks up to see that his secretary, Ralph Sadleir, is holding a sheet of vellum upon which is inscribed the intricate Chancery hand of John Stalke, the best scribe in the offices. The King has always used the celebrations of new year, and the annunciation of the Virgin, to bestow gifts upon those who have earned his favour over the past year. A manor here, a pocket of land there. Gifts of money or jewels to some, or even on occasion honours and peerages if the recipient has particularly won his favour. This shall be no exception - though the list seems rather longer than usual; as though his Majesty is attempting to erase the disasters of the last few weeks through an extensive display of generosity to his Courtiers. Bad enough that he was nearly lost to them all when he fell at the joust - but also the loss of his son to compound that dismay. The King is not a man who can easily wear a garment of humility - or humiliation - and thus attempts to conceal his losses in a grand display of wealth and largesse. There is even the opportunity for one fortunate soul to be admitted to the Order of the Garter - and that is, above all, a mark of royal favour. A place is only vacated by death, or dishonour. In this case, it is a death, and there are two men most likely to gain that empty place: Lord Rochford, or Sir Nicholas Carew. Both are favoured, though Cromwell considers Carew to be closer to the King as a friend. It shall be Rochford of course - for no amount of laughter and companionship can trump a familial connection. As the King's brother in law, George Boleyn is certain to be admitted to that august group. Another coup for the family.

Eyeing that sheet of vellum, he smiles, pleased. Ralph has proved to be a man of talent and discretion, and he is most satisfied with the young man's progress, "Excellent. See that it is set with the other documents for His Majesty's approval."

"Do you not wish to view it?"

"Do I need to?" he asks.

"Well, no; but…" Sadleir looks surprised at such a degree of trust in his work.

"If you are content, then I am content. Go to." Shaking his head with mild amusement, he returns to his own papers as Sadleir retreats and his shadow recedes from the light.

Only for that light to be obscured again as someone else steps into it, "Forgive me, my Lord; the King has requested your presence."

He looks up again at one of the King's many Ushers, and attempts - without success - to remember the boy's name. He does not ask why he has been summoned: an usher would not have been given a reason. As he is not scheduled to meet with his Majesty, he has no papers to carry, instead setting his quill into a pot and returning his papers to the coffer alongside his desk.

When he reaches the Privy Chamber, the King is seated in one of his favourite armchairs alongside a roaring fire, chewing upon sugared comfits and sipping from a glass of mulled wine. There is, of course, no reciprocal chair for his Chief Minister, and Cromwell waits at the door for his Majesty to summon him into the chamber.

"Cromwell." The King does not turn to look at him, but he obeys the invitation to enter.

"Majesty." He bows, deferentially.

"It is becoming increasingly clear to me that God shall not grant me a son from the womb of…" he pauses, as though fighting to get the words out, "…her Majesty."

In spite of himself, Cromwell feels a little sick inside. If his Majesty cannot even bring himself to speak her name, then what hope is there for Queen Anne now? Much as he has turned his back on the woman, even she does not deserve this.

He knows better than to comment, however. There are no words that he can say that shall not earn him a stern rebuke.

"I think I shall visit Wulfhall when the weather warms." Henry muses.

_You summoned me here to tell me_ that? Cromwell thinks to himself, but says nothing.

"It has been too long since I last saw Sir John. He is an excellent man, and I miss his company."

_Of course he does_ , Cromwell thinks to himself, sarcastically, _so much so that he has not invited the man back to Court._ There is one, and only one, reason why the King longs to visit the seat of the Seymours, and he is quite convinced that Sir John did not have fair locks and a fulsome bosom the last time that he saw him.

And there's the rub. His Majesty might well desire to soothe the burns he has received from Anne's fire, and the insipid Miss Seymour appears to be his balm of choice, but there still remains the awkward obstacle of how the hell they remove Anne having gone to so much trouble to crown her in the first place. Is that what his Majesty wishes to discuss?

_God…I hope not_.

He has been considering that rather intractable problem for a number of days now; after all, he is bound to the fate of the Queen as much as any other who have risen in the company of the Boleyns. His ties are looser than most, of course, and thus more easily loosed entirely; but still…to destroy that remarkable spirit…that keen intellect…

If only she had been more willing to bend to his Majesty's will - he well recalls how keenly she could argue with him on matters of theology and divinity - and she had had no higher learning, merely that which she had gained herself through her own industry in the Court of France. He would have been proud to have a daughter so accomplished as that. Instead, he must watch as she dances with death, ever closer to an abyss from which no lifeline can save her.

At long last, the King gets to the point, "In the face of the duplicity of France, I think I shall renew overtures to the Emperor. Speak to the Imperial Ambassador, ascertain the price of friendship."

"Yes, Majesty." So he is not being asked to find a way to dislodge the Queen.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

The snow has largely thawed over the last few days, though frosts in the morning are still hard as February draws to a close. Free to walk in the gardens again, Anne's complexion is rosier now, and her ladies are less fearful for her health than they were when she was cooped up in her apartments. That said, her temper is little better, and one must tread most carefully to avoid provoking it.

The dressmakers are in the process of working upon a magnificent gown for the New Year celebrations on Lady Day, while the finely worked gloves are now complete: to be given to Henry at the feast of the Annunciation that shall accompany the change from the old year to the new.

On the surface, Anne is calm; but within, her emotions are still in turmoil. Despite their argument, and his retreat, her father will not cease from badgering her to reconcile with Henry. Not for her welfare - no, of course not - but in fear of losing his power at Court. Few have his power, but many would be pleased to claim it for themselves. To his mind, it all rests upon her, and her alone. If he loses even the smallest piece of it, then it shall be entirely her fault.

But how to reconcile with Henry? The man blows hot and cold from one hour to the next. On some days, he requires her presence, on others, he refuses it. Only when her absence is likely to cause adverse comment is she permitted to be with him. What can she do? Her only means of regaining his love is to bear him the son he craves - but how can she do so if he refuses to come to her bed?

It is all a great pretence: the very height of artifice. But it is built upon tottering foundations, and if she cannot settle them, then all could collapse around her in an instant.

_God help me…please God, help me… I know not what to do…_

On and on, the prayer goes around and around in her head, obscuring her thoughts and throwing her attempts to plan into hopeless confusion. There is no one in whom she can confide…not a soul in whom she can trust.

Oblivious to her surroundings, she misses a step, and almost falls to the ground. Immediately, a pair of hands grasp her arm to steady her, and she looks up to thank Margery, only to find that instead it is Jane Rochford. No other lady but a near relative would feel able to grasp at her unprompted, of course.

There is no mockery there, no scorn. It is as though, in their mutual helplessness against their husbands, Jane has abandoned her enmity - but she does not risk a sympathetic expression. They both know that such a thing would be anathema to the Queen.

"Thank you, Lady Rochford." She says, quietly.

"Majesty."

She continues, her unexpected saviour at her side, until they reach a small arbour in the midst of the walled gardens. Alive with blooms in the summer, now it is glistening and frost-crowned; an ice palace as cold as the chill in her breast. Unable to sit, instead she paces back and forth, turning over and over the same thought. Who can help her - who can advise her…who has a cool head, a wise mind, political expertise.

God, there is only one man: and she threatened to have him executed. Of all men, he would be more than willing to hurl her to the lions that crowd around her. Dare she approach him? Would he even deign to talk to her now? Could she truly swallow her pride and grovel to the base-born son of a brewer?

No. No, she could not. Never.

If her life depended upon it?

Perhaps. But her life is not yet in the balance. Or is it? She cannot tell.

Without advice, she must rely upon her own skill to flatter and charm. So she shall. When she is seated with her husband to celebrate Lady Day, and the start of the new year, then she shall do it - flatter, dissemble, pretend that her intelligence is naught but misplaced pride. That is what he sees in that Seymour chit, and so she shall emulate it as best she can. Henry has always been susceptible to the flattery of a woman. Perhaps there is still time to turn all about.

Oh, it shall be a supper of wormwood and gall - there is no doubting it; but a plate of ashes is worth ingesting if it shall bring Henry back to her bed - and her heart.

If it must be done, then she shall do it.

* * *

The noise from the Mews is astonishing; the clattering of hoofs and the shouting of grooms as the horses are gathered for their riders.

"Are they to hunt?" Rich asks, leaning out of the window to look at them, blocking Cromwell's light as he does so. God, he looks like a child eager for the first snows of the winter.

"No. His Majesty is to ride west, to Windsor, and then on to Burbage on the morrow."

"Ah." Rich's comment is short, but so laden with meaning that Cromwell glares at him. Lord above, he is overly inquisitive - but then he is an unmitigated weasel, keen to seek out information that is advantageous to him. To know that the King has departed to Wulfhall, and to the house of the Seymours, is valuable information to a man so lacking in principles. Cromwell returns his attention to his work, concealing his expression of mild disgust.

Not that it matters what Rich knows. It is doubtless all about the court already - for the news that his Majesty has ridden off to the west to pay court to the Seymours is hardly a secret. Of course, people might say 'the Seymours', but everyone knows that it is the daughter he is keen to see.

Finally, Rich stands away from the window, as the riders depart, and Cromwell has his light back. To his relief, the irksome man seems disinclined to remain hovering nearby, and instead he makes his way back to his own papers, at the other end of the chamber.

With no one looking over his shoulder, Cromwell removes the papers upon which he has been scribbling, and returns to the one that matters: his intended agenda for his meeting with Eustace Chapuys. While he is not negotiating anything of great import, Chapuys is a wily, duplicitous individual, and it pays to be prepared for any eventuality, even if the negotiations are upon friendly terms.

He looks at the notes again, and sighs inwardly. No matter how he terms it, whatever is offered to the King to cement a peace treaty, it shall not include either recognition of Elizabeth, or of Anne. Francis would not do it, and nor shall Charles, no matter how profane and angry the King's ranting that they must. The laws of England do not apply to foreign Kings.

And so another brick is removed from the foundations of the Boleyns' bastions of power. He knows Chapuys too well to believe that the Ambassador shall not demand the restoration of the Lady Mary to the succession as a price of a treaty; and to do that shall be impossible while circumstances are as they are. Henry would rather keep trying to get a son than grant his crown to his first daughter. Even his bastard would be preferable to that. What does it matter that no bastard has even been acceptable to the Realm as their King?

Needs must, however. Henry has demanded that he enquire as to what conditions would be in place if England and the Empire are to become officially bound in friendship - and he shall do so.

* * *

The small group of ladies sit around the table, playing Triumphs and doing all that they can to keep their gossip quiet. The Queen is abed, and they do not want her to hear their words.

"Has he really gone to Wiltshire?" Anne Bray whispers, softly.

"So I am told," Madge Shelton hisses back, "Gone to pay court to that Seymour trollop."

"But what of Lady Day - will he be back for that?"

"Of course he will; but whether he shall return to court without those rapacious Wolves, who knows?"

"Hush yourselves!" Margery Horsman snaps, crossly, "It is not for you to speak so! If you cannot speak of any other matter, then speak not at all!"

Chastened, the women return to their game, and their gossip moves on to other matters.

On the other side of the curtains, Anne turns over in bed, the tears falling from her eyes. She knows, too, where the King has gone. And why.

Come Lady Day, she shall have all to play for - and if she fails, then all is lost.


	3. Desperate Measures

The candles have burned low, but are still of sufficient height to give light for another hour or two. Seated at his desk in the growing darkness, Cromwell stifles a yawn and continues to read the documents that he has been working on.

The clerks have long since departed, as has Sadleir. Rich, of course, departed hours ago, in search of a gaming table and a few pots of ale, no doubt. He would have returned to his apartments as well, but for the meeting that he intends to hold shortly.

Being at Placentia, the journey back to his home in Stepney would be too much time wasted aboard a barge, particularly as Chapuys is not currently resident at the property he rents within Austin Friars. Even though the King is away from Court, Cromwell does not like to be too far away from the centre of government. There have even been occasions where he has hosted the Council at his grand home in order to retain that control.

He looks up as his steward arrives, "Sir, his Excellency is without."

"Excellent. Send him in, Badham." Hastily, he clears away the papers. He does not want Chapuys to see _those_.

"Mr Secretary." Chapuys approaches the desk as Cromwell rises respectfully to his feet. Tall, elegant and as lacking in principles as any other in this benighted place, the wily Savoyard looks intrigued to have been invited to speak to a man who has no rank, but nonetheless appears to be as close to the King as the Groom of the Stool. Partly out of courtesy, partly because it is the language of Diplomats, but mostly because Badham speaks only English, they converse in French.

"Excellency - please, be seated. Might I offer you a cup of spiced wine?" Base-born he may be, but Cromwell can politic with the best of them, and he is the very soul of gentility.

"Thank you, that would be most welcome. How can I be of assistance to you?"

Cromwell seats himself again as Badham brings across the wine, "His Majesty has asked me to enquire with you whether his Imperial Majesty would be interested in making a treaty with England of mutual friendship and support against our enemies."

"You mean France." Chapuys says, smiling.

"As I said - against our enemies." Cromwell answers, blandly, "His Majesty envisages many opportunities for trade, and other activities of mutual support that shall ensure that we are bound together in peace and prosperity for years to come."

He chooses not to mention the matter of religion - now that the King has divested himself of the authority of the Pope, there is no means that can be employed to bring him back such subservience again. But then, Chapuys must know that - he has been here for long enough, has he not?

The Ambassador sips his wine, speculatively, "It is important to set out at the first step that there shall be certain… _conditions_ …attached to any agreement. In addition to England resubmitting to Papal authority, His Imperial Majesty would expect concessions to be made pertaining to the Lady Mary." He pauses, and frowns, impressed: "This is most excellent wine."

"Thank you, Excellency. Of course, his Majesty is keen to consider all conditions that might be raised - though I am no more able to speak for my King than you are for yours." He knew this was coming. The King’s refusal to bow before the rule of the Pope was always a sticking-point in any negotiation with the Empire; while Chapuys is no more well disposed to the Queen than his master, and sees her Majesty's recent calamity as nothing more than God's judgement upon a sinful and invalid marriage. While he has no doubt that the first stipulation might well be dropped in favour of that ephemeral diplomatic sleight of hand that is political expediency, and any settlement with the Holy Roman Emperor would involve Mary is no surprise, how to find a solution that would appease both the Emperor and the King is a question that he cannot easily answer; not when the very family who has benefited the most from the Queen's favour still remains at the Council table. Besides, Queen Anne would never allow even the thought of the hated Mary being placed back in the line of succession ahead of her younger sister.

"His Imperial Majesty would be most keen to agree to a treaty with England, Mr Secretary, and he has previously authorised me to speak upon his behalf. I can assure you that, in order to secure such a treaty, his Majesty the King must restore both England to the authority of Rome, and the Lady Mary to the succession, overturning the order that declared her bastardy. He would also be willing to betroth her to his son, Philip, as part of said treaty."

Cromwell nods, sagely, though his thoughts are sceptical. Whether he likes it nor not, Henry shall have to consider that intractable problem - the success of a treaty with the Emperor might well hang upon those two conditions. Regardless of the size of her King's self-regard, England is a small nation that cannot stand alone against the might of the Empire, or of France. She must ally with one or the other; but in each case, the ambassadors, regardless of their seriousness over England’s return to Rome, always offer their sons to the banished bastard, and not the princess. The disparity in their ages is of little account - the King was six years junior to his first Queen, so the prospect of tying a young woman of seventeen years to a nine year old boy is hardly shocking; besides, they would not be required to consummate it until both were of a more suitable age to do so. No, the problem is the entirely pro-French Boleyns.

All of them.

"His Majesty has authorised me to tell you that he is equally keen to make a treaty with the Emperor for the benefit of our nation, and of the Empire. And if there are any… _obstacles_ …to that treaty, I am sure that they can be overcome."

Chapuys nods, smiling, "I think our minds are meeting, Mr Secretary."

Sitting back, Cromwell returns the smile - though in his deepest heart, he cannot help feeling the cold spread of yet another stain upon his ever more besmirched soul.

* * *

Jane Rochford sits upon a stone bench and watches as her Queen plays with her favourite dog, throwing a small ball for the spaniel to chase and return to her, though she does not retrieve the saliva-drenched ball from the animal's jaws - instead a steward picks it up and sets it in one basket, while a second steward hands her a clean ball from another.

That today has been difficult is an understatement; a tempest of anger and tears, then laughter and vivaciousness. No one who approaches the Queen knows whether they shall be accepted or rebuffed. Despite all efforts to keep the news from her, she is aware that the King has gone to Wiltshire. And she knows why - but then, _everyone_ knows why. She should hate that richly dressed woman who is not permitted to sully her hands with dog-spit; but with each passing day, she begins to find that her animosity is being chipped away by sympathy. She should be thinking that the fates have served Anne right - punishing her for her presumption that she could oust a ruling Queen without consequence - but instead, she feels sadness, for she has overheard her own husband's views, and his endless plotting to keep the privileges that her crown has won him.

A cloud rolls over the sun, killing what little warmth there is in the air. Shivering slightly, Jane wonders whether to tell the Queen of her brother's ever wilder plans. That she has spoken ill of George before tells against her, and the Queen does not trust her. But who is left for the Queen to trust now?

She looks up again, and her stomach knots - as it always does - with tense anger and resentment, a companion from the moment she was obliged to wed the Boleyn's only son and serve the younger daughter. It seems to have become utterly instinctive, and she must swallow down the bile with a conscious effort.

The sun does not reappear, and she raises her eyes skywards to see that the clouds are growing thicker. When she looks to the ground again, she can see spots of rain upon the flagstones.

"Take the dogs in." Anne says, shortly, then ignores the ushers as they rush to comply. The ladies are obviously keen to return to the Palace, as the rain is becoming a thick drizzle that threatens to settle into garments and chill the wearer to the bone. But she does not move, "Leave me."

They dither, unwilling to leave her unattended, but equally intent upon getting indoors as soon as possible, and Anne turns, her expression savage, "I said, _leave me!_ "

She watches them as they flee. All but one.

"I do not wish you to stay, Jane." God, she sounds so tired. But then, she has slept not at all for two nights in a row, and even the smallest matter seems like an insurmountable mountain in her path. There is no one to whom she can turn - not a soul in whom she can confide…

And then her eyes are full of tears, tears of pain, grief and loneliness. Her desperately wanted son is gone, her husband halfway across England seeking to court another woman. Her father is interested only in his own welfare, while even George seems unwilling to come to her presence any longer. She cannot even turn to her sister for sympathy, not now that she has banished Mary from her presence thanks to her inappropriate choice of husband.

Somehow, it seems not to matter to her that she is standing in the midst of the rain, her headdress sagging in the wet; or that the only confidante she has is a woman who despises her. All despise her, so what is there left now?

"Come, Majesty. Come under the awning out of the rain." Jane's voice is astonishingly kindly, and she guides Anne to the cloth awning that is the only shelter available to them.

"God help me," Anne weeps, "God help me - I have no one left. I am so alone…"

They sit together, Jane soothing her sister-in-law and sharing her grief at the inconstancy of husbands, until the tears dry, as tears always do.

"I must ask your forgiveness, Majesty." Jane says, quietly, "I have looked upon you with dislike, and that is most unChristian of me."

"But hardly unjustified." Anne sighs, "If you seek forgiveness from me, I grant it - though I think that there is nothing to forgive. I think, between us, we must work together to the end of bringing our husbands to heel, must we not?"

For the first time in longer than she can recall, Jane laughs, "Yes indeed, Majesty."

"But before we do so - I think I must seek your forgiveness in return."

"You have it, Majesty."

"Come, we should go in. Is there a less public means of doing so? I have no wish for my enemies to see me drenched by rain and blubbered with tears. I must wash my face and apply some cosmetics before I dare to show myself to the Court." How remarkable catharsis can be - her voice is stronger, and more purposeful. In a moment of despair, she has been granted the light of a friend to whom she can turn.

It soon becomes clear as they enter the palace that Jane knows many more corridors and routes through the palace than Anne does, and they are unseen, until the sound of voices drive the pair into an alcove to remain out of sight.

"When is the King expected back?" The women exchange a glance, for the voice is that of Rochford.

"Tomorrow." Wiltshire answers, his voice hoarse and low, "Why such secrecy? Hiding in alleys like footpads?"

"Can you be certain that we shall not be overheard anywhere else, father? Do you truly not know that Cromwell has spies everywhere?"

Anne frowns; while she knows that Cromwell is well informed, she is equally aware that he does not have ears everywhere. It just seems that way. How bizarre that her brother has become so convinced of it that he hides in dark corners to carry out his plotting.

Wiltshire shrugs, "When he returns, or does not return, is irrelevant. Unless Anne gets with child again, we are doomed. The wretched girl has lost his love, and threatens all."

"It does not have to be that way." George's voice is much lower now, "What if we can bring it about?"

"He will not come to her bed - and only the Virgin ever conceived without the aid of a man."

"And if his seed is failing?"

Wiltshire is not the only one who is startled at such a suggestion.

"Think upon it, father," Rochford urges, "when, at any time, has the King fathered a son who is both legitimate, and alive? Perhaps it is a weakness in the line - but it cannot have escaped your notice that the succession has not one man in its ranks? Maybe the King is not capable of fathering a son."

"Apart from Fitzroy."

"An aberration."

"And how do you propose to resolve this…issue?" Wiltshire asks.

"It is not hard. We find another who can impregnate the Queen. Then we ensure that his Majesty is suitably encouraged for a woman, and insensible enough not to know with whom he tumbles. After all, a dog cares nothing for the breed of the bitch with which it couples if it is sufficiently hot to do so."

Anne tenses, waiting for her father to defend her.

"And how do we find one who shall provide the seed that shall impregnate the Queen?"

Jane rests her hand upon Anne's arm, and shakes her head.

"It shall perhaps be costly - but not impossibly so. A sedative in the Queen's wine, and she shall not be awake to refuse him. Come now, father. It is not as though we have not been obliged to intervene in obstructive matters before?"

"If I recall, _that_ enterprise failed in its intentions."

Jane looks at Anne, who shakes her head, bemused.

"This shall not. Once there is a babe in the Queen's belly, all shall be secure for us again. Come Lady Day, I shall be a Knight of the Garter, and we shall see off those Seymour upstarts once and for all. And I shall have Jane put away as a madwoman, annul the marriage and marry a woman of higher rank to match my own."

Wiltshire nods, "So you _have_ thought this through." He says, approvingly, "Anne's continued failure is intolerable to me. It seems that we must step forth where she has faltered, and save ourselves. If she is lost, then so be it. But I have not come this far only to see all that I have won snatched from me by my daughter's inconstancy. Should we succeed in this, then I would not be concerned should you wish to find a more suitable wife."

"Come, I have wine in my chambers. As soon as his Majesty is returned from Wiltshire, we shall put our plan into action."

The Queen and her Lady in Waiting remain where they are for some considerable time, unwilling to move from their concealment.

"My God…" Anne whispers, weakly, "Are they truly so desperate that they would use me so?"

Jane does not answer - she does not need to. The answer is written upon the Queen's face.

* * *

Cromwell reads the paper containing the proposals for the new treaty with the Empire, and sags a little. If he had thought it likely that the Boleyn star was upon the very verge of falling, then the words upon this sheet of paper are a blanket of night to snuff it out.

Most of the conditions are more than acceptable: the freedom to trade openly, mutual protection of shipping, and other stipulations that are worthwhile for the future prosperity of England through the absence of war. But there is still that one - the most difficult to implement - the requirement to restore the Lady Mary to legitimacy, and return her to the succession.

There is a way around it, of course. Now that Queen Katherine is dead, all that needs to be done is for the King and Queen to re-state their marriage vows. They do not even need to do it publicly - all that would serve is to state that they are man and wife, and then enter into carnal relations - but would the King be even remotely willing to do so? That is the sticking point. He is angry and resentful towards Queen Anne, and would willingly extricate himself from the marriage now that the Seymours have placed a pretty face in front of him. The only means to keep him in the face of such temptation would be for Anne to become with child again: that would bind them together with bands of iron that no amount of resentment could break. But to do that, he must come to her bed, or she to his. And he has not shown any inclination to permit either.

No - as things stand, either Mary is legitimate, or Elizabeth is. They cannot both hold that state, for the validity of one marriage negates the validity of the other. After all the effort to declare the marriage to Katherine null and void, to turn about and admit otherwise shall humiliate a King who refuses to be made to look a fool - but if the Lady Mary is to be granted back her royal state, then how else to do it? If she is returned to the succession, all of Christendom shall expect it to be as a legitimate princess.

Normally, he would regard such a problem with relish, for it challenges his formidable intellect - but there is so much riding upon this that an error upon his part might well be his last. He has the favour of the king, yes, but the deaths of others has shown him just how fickle that favour can be.

"I have a flagon of wine, Mr Secretary," Sadleir looks around the door with a cheerful smile, "Would you like some?"

He raises his head from his notes, and smiles, "God yes, Ralph. I am parched, and wine would be most welcome."

As Sadleir ducks back out again, he conceals the papers. None know of this, and he wishes to keep it that way. God, it would be helpful if he could consult another legal mind over this - but confidentiality is essential until the King has returned, and the only lawyer whose expertise he would trust is Rich. Unfortunately, as he cannot trust Rich himself, Cromwell must remain silent.

Sadleir returns with the wine, and he accepts a cup gratefully. Today has been difficult: most difficult. If he is to get what the King desires - a treaty with the Emperor - then he must persuade the King to do something that he most definitely does _not_ desire: to admit that the annulment of his marriage to Katherine was wrong, and that Mary is a Princess of the Blood. No matter how capable he is; no matter how many hours he works, he cannot reconcile the impossible.

With no way to confide his difficulty, he instead savours the wine, and allows Sadleir to apprise him of all that has occurred in the offices today, "We have set traps in the archive again, Mr Secretary; James found that some of the older papers have been nibbled by mice, and there are signs of mildew in one corner, so I have engaged builders to investigate the source of damp."

Cromwell nods: another salvo in the ongoing conflict with the enemies of good archiving, unwelcome invaders of the storehouse that supports his work to reform the operations of government that is a legacy left behind by Cardinal Wolsey. That in itself is a monumental challenge, and is not progressing as well as he would wish. Not with so many obstacles in his path - mostly wealthy, titled obstacles. God, what he wouldn't give for freedom to organise the Government into a more efficient mechanism…

"Oh, I thought you should know, Mr Secretary, the King is due to return tomorrow."

"He is? Good. I have matters that I need to discuss with him." Cromwell does not give away that he already knows of the King's impending return, for one of his men is concealed within the King's party.

Unlike most, Sadleir doesn't ask him what matters are to be discussed; he is far too discreet for that. Others might, like that tiresomely inquisitive Solicitor General. Not only is he one for unguarded discussion over ale pots, but Rich is also one to retain information that he considers worth keeping for future use - ready to unveil at the most advantageous moment for his own advancement. Did he not do exactly that with the late Sir Thomas More? A conversation of little merit, but - shorn of its context - sufficient to destroy a far better man than the one to whom those trivial words were spoken.

Sadleir looks up from his wine to see that the Secretary is gazing off somewhere into the middle distance, his eyes drowsily heavy, "Perhaps you should retire?"

Cromwell shifts slightly, and looks up again, "Forgive me, Ralph. It has been a long day. I shall finish the wine, clear my papers and seek my bed."

"I shall send one of the stewards to snuff the candles."

Rising, he notices that Cromwell has covered papers up to avoid his seeing them, but he is neither concerned nor resentful at the secrecy. He owes far too much to his mentor, and his admiration for the talent of a man who came from nothing the base of a solid loyalty that few share.

Locking the papers away, Cromwell allows himself the luxury of a wide yawn and a stretch. Tomorrow the King shall be back, and he shall present the Emperor's terms.

* * *

Queen Anne is pacing back and forth, her thoughts going round and round in circles. She had always known that her father viewed her in quite mercenary terms - but to hear George speaking of her so? God have mercy, how could he? How _could_ he?

Is that all she has become to them? A brood mare whose existence is solely to provide them with the means to cement their power at Court? And that they would bring a man to her bed while she lay insensible - just to ensure it? Shaking, she reaches for her glass of wine and takes a rather larger sip than she intended.

Nearby, Jane sits quietly and watches. Of all her ladies, Jane is the one she would have trusted the least - the absolute least. But they are now bound together by a dreadful secret - and it is only in the light of that knowledge that she begins to see the woman across from her as a potential ally in the battle to come.

"They shall not use me so." She says, softly, "I _will_ not permit it. Never. The child I bear shall be my husband's; not the progeny of a stranger. We must find a way for me to regain his favour, Jane - and there is no one I can trust but you."

"I give you my word, Majesty." Jane rises to her feet, "I shall not betray that trust. We are both at the mercy of men who would destroy us for their own gain."

"Thank you." Anne looks relieved, "I shall never disparage you again. I promise you."

Jane curtseys, "I shall ensure that I remain hostile in countenance, Majesty. It would be considered most strange if our previous enmity were seen to have been overturned."

The Queen nods, "That is wise. We are navigating dangerous waters now, Jane; and I cannot promise you that we shall emerge from them in safety. The King loved me once - I know it, and I love him still. I have always loved him - regardless of the rages and conflicts. I shall appeal to that - to all that was once between us. I shall dance, and flirt, and entertain those who attend upon us on Lady Day."

"Might there be any who could speak to the King upon your behalf?"

Anne's eyes widen, "de Castelnau - I still have friends from my days in France. His Majesty may listen to King Francis - and we are still upon friendly terms with him; or, at least, we were. Whether that is still so…" her voice trails off. It is impossible to know from one week to the next which of the two strongest powers on the continent is England's friend; but Antoine de Castelnau shall know.

"Should I pass him a note?"

"No. I shall seek him out. A note shall not convey the urgency of my plight. While his Majesty is absent, there are fewer who might see me and report my act."

They are disturbed from their contemplations by the sound of voices approaching the Presence Chamber. Immediately, Jane rises to her feet and slips away into a side chamber. It would not serve their purpose for them to be found alone together.

"Majesty!" Margery's expression is delighted, "Your gown for Lady Day is ready - the dressmakers shall deliver it in an hour, and the jewels that were re-set at his Majesty's command to accompany it." She sounds so excited - and genuinely so. Despite her own misgivings, Anne knows that she must play the game now, and play it well.

"That is excellent news, Madge!" she says, clapping her hands, "Ladies! Ensure that we are ready to admit the dressmakers. Summon Mr Smeaton and his lute - I wish to have music while I try the gown."

It is as though they are in the summer of those first months after her marriage and coronation. Bustling, whispering women, giggling amongst themselves in anticipation of the arrival of a new and beautiful gown for their Queen. Smeaton arrives in short order, dressed almost ridiculously richly. God above, where has he got the money to pay for such frippery? The King pays him well, certainly - and has made him a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber; but that gives him no rights to ignore the sumptuary laws. Has he forgotten his place?

"Good heavens, Mr Smeaton!" Lisbet Browne simpers, jokingly, "What has happened to you, have you fallen into a Duke's closet?"

Despite his bright expression, the young man gives no answer, but instead calls through to the Queen, who waits in her dressing chamber on the other side of a thick curtain, "What shall I play for you, Majesty?"

"Something bright and cheerful - a galliard for choice, though a tourdion shall suffice."

Then her silk-women arrive, bearing a carefully wrapped bundle, which they are permitted to carry past the closed curtain. In spite of herself, her expression of delight is no longer feigned, for she has always loved fine clothes and jewels - and she has every hope that the gown within those wrappings shall be fit for a woman eager to regain the favour of a King.

As the women draw back the covers, her gasp is one of wonder, for it is glorious. The kirtle is a deep bronze silk damask, while the overgown is a shining ivory-gold, embroidered with red leaf motifs that echo the richness of the kirtle. Yes, it is most beautiful.

"Show me the jewels." She cannot keep the eagerness from her voice.

Eleanor Rutland reaches for a velvet covered case, and lifts the lid to show a great chain thickly set with rubies and garnets. Its length is such that it shall encircle her neck twice, with a great pendant that shall rest over her stomacher - while a beautiful half-circlet of gold shall sit at the front of her french hood. That, and her finest rose perfume, shall be most ideal. For the first time in days, Anne feels almost happy - as though all the miseries that have been visited upon her had never occurred at all. She is perseverance once more, just as she was in those early days at Court when she danced in the Chateau Vert masque.

And her husband shall fall in love with her all over again.


	4. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your kind comments and kudos - all of them are very much appreciated!
> 
> For those who have read this on FF.net, I've made some tweaks to the contretemps with Chapuys so that it more resembles events as Chapuys reported them, rather than how they appeared in the corresponding episode. Audley is now present (as he was), while Henry's behaviour comes entirely out of left field (as it did) rather than responding to something that Chapuys said. I've also given Smeaton his lute back, as he never played the violin. Primarily because it hadn't been invented yet!

Cromwell gathers his papers together, taking care to conceal that most explosive document well within the pile. The matter of the treaty with the Emperor is not the only issue that he must discuss today: there is also the plan for the future closure of the larger monastic houses. Based on the amount of money that has been recovered from the smaller houses alone, such an undertaking shall be quite enormous. Consequently, he intends to establish a new department to deal with it: the Court of Augmentations.

The days when the King stepped aside and allowed others to run the Kingdom while he amused himself are long gone, and now he expects to be apprised of everything. While that is a preferable state of affairs, as a King who does not pay attention to the rule of his Kingdom allows his council to create factions and squabble amongst themselves, it also makes his work slower and more difficult, as he cannot be sure that the King shall agree to a proposal from one day to the next. His Majesty has always been mercurial and capricious, and too many have paid the price for it with their lives.

It is not that the King is a fool - far from it - and there was a time when he was celebrated as one of the most intelligent and enlightened Princes in Europe. But the vagaries of life have changed him - and there is something dark in his Majesty now: something that seems to have emerged only in the last few weeks. It is as though the King fell from his horse at the joust, but another man entirely rose when he emerged from his unconscious state. That capriciousness is far more dangerous than once it was.

The bell of the great palace clock strikes the hour outside the office window, so he tucks his leather wallet under his arm and makes his way through the corridors to the King's Privy Chamber. Within, the King is standing at the window, looking out at the central court beyond. Even from the door, his face in profile, he looks to be elsewhere in his head; as though his body is present, but his soul is far away. To Cromwell, it could not be clearer that his master is thinking of Miss Seymour.

Eventually, the King wrenches his attention away from the window, "Mr Cromwell."

"Majesty." Cromwell bows and enters.

As soon as the door is closed, Henry beckons Cromwell over to the large table, "You spoke to Chapuys?"

"Yes, Majesty." He burrows into his wallet, "His Excellency's proposals are noted in this document."

The King takes the offending document and examines it. His silence is long, and increasingly unnerving, as Cromwell knows that he is reading that most difficult stipulation. Elizabeth's status in the succession is protected in law - and a great deal of effort went into forcing all of England to recognise her as both Princess and Heir - while Mary's repudiation was so firmly applied that even now she remains at Hatfield in the entourage of her younger sister.

But then - if it was such a simple matter to reduce England's pride to naught but a servant to a royal babe, to do likewise to Elizabeth would be no more difficult, would it?

Finally, the King looks up again, "Arrange for Chapuys to attend an audience at the Lady Day celebrations, Mr Cromwell. I shall speak to him upon the matter at that time."

"Yes Majesty."

"What else do you have for me?"

No more certain of his ground than he was when he arrived, Cromwell sets to work on presenting the rest of his papers.

* * *

The door of the Privy Chamber opens, and once again Wiltshire enters, "Dismiss your ladies. I wish to talk to you in private."

His eyes are cold, his expression unpleasant; for a moment, no one moves.

" _Get out!_ "

"Remain where you are ladies." Anne's voice is equally firm, "Whatever his Grace wishes to say, I am sure it can be spoken of publicly."

The gathering of women dithers, torn between the furious order of the Earl, and the calm command of the Queen. She has never openly defied her father before; but a surreptitious conversation in the darker back corridors of the palace have changed her perspective in a manner that nothing else could. The depths to which he would be willing to sink in order to continue to benefit from her royal status have shocked her beyond measure, and the last vestiges of respect and love that once she held for him have followed those dark thoughts into that abyss.

Wiltshire stares at his daughter, unsure whether to be shocked or angry over her defiance. Her eyes are diamond hard, and there is a cold authority about her that he has never seen before. Scowling, he tries again, "Dismiss your women."

Anne remains silent, and the ladies exchange fearful glances. With each passing second, Wiltshire's patience is being ever more tested, and his temper is shortening at an equally precipitous rate.

Finally, she relents, "Ladies, if you could excuse us, please? His Grace wishes to speak to me in private." Her tone is sweet, her expression mild. To all present, the Earl included, it is clear that the Queen has assumed the power between them.

Wiltshire is quaking with rage by the time the room has emptied, and he turns on Anne, his face almost cherry red, "How _dare_ you humiliate me so! I am an Earl of England!"

"And I am the Queen of England. Do not forget it." Even now, she does not raise her voice. Instead, her tone is cold and unnervingly distant. There is no hint of her prodigious temper, nor any suggestion that he is as able to overrule her as once he did. Startled, he blusters somewhat, before stepping forth and grasping her wrist painfully tightly.

"I am your _father_ , and you _will_ obey me." He hisses, viciously.

Still horribly cold, she wrenches her arm free, "I am not your property any longer, _Father_. I belong to his Majesty now, not to you. Until my marriage, I was a peeress in my own right - and I am now a Queen. According to the laws of England, my rank is higher than yours, and thus _you_ have no power to command me."

She awaits the explosion - and it is not long in coming. Grasping her shoulders, he shakes her so violently that her hood is knocked askew, "I will _not_ be spoken to so, you ungrateful little bitch! You shall do as I say! You are naught but a mere woman, and even the poorest of the pot washers in the sculleries has a higher rank than you!"

"And they have had a crown set upon their head? By the King of England himself?" Still, she remains cold, and calm. Calmer than she ever has before in the face of confrontation. She has her father's temper, and has always struggled to contain it when events have piled up upon her; but she is now in a fight for her very survival, and that temper shall serve her little if all she has won is now at stake, "Do not think to insult me, Father. I have bowed to your whims and demands for long enough. There is but one man to whom I answer now, and that is my husband: his Majesty the King."

There was once a time when such defiance would have earned her strokes with the paddle at the hands of her nurse; but she is no longer a child, and there is no nurse present. Frustrated, enraged, he stands back, unable to think of a response. Words failing him, he turns instead to gestures. His eyes savage, he draws back his arm, and slaps her violently across the face, dislodging her hood further still.

And even that is not sufficient to move her. Anne continues to look at him without emotion, despite the rising redness upon her slapped cheek. Wiltshire steps back, his anger fading as fear rises to take its place. Something has changed in her - something…he can see it. What has happened?

"There is nothing between us any longer, your Grace. You have made your view of my worth abundantly clear, and thus you are naught but his Grace the Earl of Wiltshire, and I am her Majesty the Queen." She does not mention the plot that they inadvertently revealed to her - it is a weapon that she wishes to retain in her arsenal until it is needed, "You are dismissed from my presence."

He opens his mouth to object, but cannot find words; he has struck his Queen - and the evidence is writ large upon her face. She could, at a stroke, have him arrested. Given her current, cold mood, he is not entirely convinced that she shall not do it, either. Deeply uncertain, and with his intended instructions all still unsaid, he backs away and retreats. He has not bowed to her, but then she did not expect it.

No sooner has he departed than her ladies return, and one of them lets out a squeal of shock at the sight of her dishevelled hood and reddened cheek, "Majesty! What has happened?"

"What does it look like to you, Madge? His Grace has struck me." She says, calmly, "As he considers it appropriate for a father to do."

"But you are the _Queen_!" Already, Margery is summoning women with rose-water, powdered eggshell and cloths to attempt to reduce that ghastly redness, "No man has the right to strike you!"

"It is of no moment. He has done naught but prove to me that I have bested him." Anne ignores Margery's look of confusion at her statement; but she is convinced of it. Her father has overstepped a barrier in striking her, and she could easily have him arrested for doing so. A mere man may not chastise an anointed Queen, and they both know it.

The redness has subsided by suppertime - a fortuitous occurrence, as she has been summoned into the King's presence. Having returned from chasing that damned Seymour slut, he wishes to pretend to all that he has done no more than visit an old friend for the hunt, it seems. Such superficiality.

As she stands and views the gowns paraded before her to choose, she eyes them all most carefully. If tonight is a grand performance, then she shall play her part with the best of them.

* * *

The morning air is still rather chill as the feast of the Annunciation dawns. Despite her apparent reconciliation with her husband, Anne knows that the King is slipping away from her grasp a little more each day. God, he was distant as she sat beside him and supped. So distant that her appetite fled away from her, and she was obliged to lean behind a patterned cloth held before her by her ladies and vomit what small morsels she could consume into a basin. Her victory against her father had seemed so sweet - but it was a pyrrhic one; for there is no protection for her from a King who seems unwilling to even look at her any longer.

Most are still sleeping, for the King hosted a great feast last night; a feast at which she was seated beside him, but the distance nonetheless an almost insurmountable divide. Her garments are simple, even dull, as she has no wish for any to witness her mission this morning.

She has always held a great affinity to France; it was, after all, where she became the sophisticated, exotic woman that so captured the King's attention when she came home and entered the service of the woman she would go on to supplant. Never a beautiful woman by conventional standards, she has risen to such heights thanks to her manners and intelligence - and now she must use that intelligence again to avoid falling as far, and far more quickly than she rose.

There he is - on the upper landing making his way back to his apartments from his morning Mass. Like Chapuys, de Castelnau is ostentatiously religious, and would certainly have undertaken extensive devotions this morning to celebrate Lady Day. Most of the rest of the Court shall attend the larger royal Mass later this morning - probably nursing sore heads - but those who remain firmly Catholic are clearly intent upon flaunting their greater piety as an example to those who have turned to the Lutheran heresy.

Biting down her sudden flash of spite, Anne hurries up the stairs from the corridor that leads to her own apartments as quietly as she can, "Excellency!" her voice is a low hiss, "Please - wait!"

He turns, and stares at her in shock, "Majesty? What are you doing?"

"Forgive me," she is breathing rather fast from her exertions, "But I knew not where else to go. I am beset by enemies, and I look to you, and to his Majesty, King Francis, for aid."

"In what way can I aid you, Majesty?" de Castelnau is obviously terrified, "Please - we must not be seen…"

"I am aware of that, Excellency - but I ask you to appeal to your master upon my behalf. Enemies at court plot against me, and I am in need of his support against them. Ask him to write to the King - to make overtures of friendship. I shall do what I can here to speak well of such overtures. You and I both know that the Emperor is no friend to peace between our realms."

"I shall do what I can, Majesty," he stammers, fearfully, "but you and I both know that we are powerless in the face of Princes."

"I know - but I trust you to serve your master well, Excellency. Thank you - thank you…" looking about for fear that someone might have seen their encounter, Anne turns and retreats in haste.

To approach an Ambassador independently is a dangerous move, and she is well aware of it - but she is beset by enemies, and what else can she do?

Jane is waiting for her as she returns to her apartments, "Majesty - where have you been?"

"Forgive me. I sought out the French Ambassador to ask for the aid of the King of France."

"Is that wise? King Francis's advocacy for you is no more free of self-interest than that of any other Prince."

Anne sinks into a chair, "I know, Jane. I know - but I have no alternative. There is so little room to manoeuvre, that even this is better than to say nothing. As long as we retain our friendship with France over that with the Empire, then I have one friend who can speak for me. Send through Madge and Anne, it would look most strange if I looked to you to assist me in my preparations for the feast tonight." Briefly, she squeezes Jane's hand.

"Yes Majesty."

* * *

The hall is packed with people, talking, circulating, waiting for the moment when the King and Queen arrive, and they can finally sit down to eat. The Kitchens have been busy since first light, roasting great sides of beef, boiling enormous hams, baking capons and mutton saddles in an orgy of gastronomy that shall be consumed in a single evening by a multitude of hungry courtiers.

To a man of little principle but keen eye, it is a fascinating display, and Sir Richard Rich considers himself to be a most accomplished observer. The tables are set, and people are seated according to their rank. But for his presence upon the Privy Council - only recently granted - he would be sitting much further away from the dais, where the King's table awaits him.

God, he is famished; what's taking so long? Irked, he shifts slightly upon the bench - though he shall be obliged to rise when the royal couple arrive. Fortunately, his impatience is released as the roar of brazen trumpets fanfares from the gallery above their heads, and the doors open to admit the royal party.

The display is spectacular, of course; with both King and Queen resplendent in silks and jewels. But nonetheless the sense of falseness that accompanies them is as vivid as the scarlet of the King's embroidered doublet. Even those who are less acute to their surroundings could hardly fail to miss it. It escapes Rich not at all.

The couple say nothing to one another, nor do they do more than touch their fingertips together, as little as decorum will permit. Their movements are stiff, but the King's actions seem almost to display repulsion - as though he has no wish to be anywhere close to the woman at his side.

The trumpets rasp again to welcome the first remove, paraded in by stewards clad in red. The finest dishes, of course, are served to the high table upon the dais, and all watch enviously as piles of spiced meats gilded with fine gold leaf, and a magnificently roasted peacock, dressed in its original skin with the feathers fanned up behind it, are set before them. The tables occupied by men of lesser, but still high, rank are served steaming piles of roasted beef and mutton, glistening with sweet, spiced sauces that are delightfully sticky and rich, alongside the same piles of finest manchet bread and bowls of fruit-spiked frumenty. Being a Councillor, Rich is amongst those served so well, and he is keen to reach for a portion.

As he eats, he looks back up to the high table, where the King is determinedly winnowing his way through the victuals set before him. Now and again, he pauses to wipe his grease-dripping fingers upon the napkin that rests over his shoulder and laughs rather too heartily at whatever joke is being shared with Suffolk, who sits beside him. To his left, the Queen picks at her portion with little enthusiasm, and says nothing to Wiltshire who sits beside her with a thunderous expression upon his face.

Most are far too busy gobbling from their trenchers, but Rich can see Cromwell nearby, eyeing the high table with the same degree of scrutiny as himself. Doubtless he sees it, too; for the atmosphere between the King and Queen is painfully brittle, and Rich is well aware that the Secretary is a greater talent at observing the unspoken moods of others than even he is.

By the time the second remove is paraded into the hall, the free-flowing wine has loosened tongues, and the noise level has risen again. Such is the clamour that no individual conversation can be heard, but the arrival of flocks of capons, sallets bejewelled with violets and marigolds and bright, clear broths with yet more manchet bread, soon refocuses everyone's attention, and the noise reduces again. Even the King seems less stiff now, thanks to the liberal application of claret, but nonetheless he still does not say a word to his Queen.

The diners rise after two hours and talk amongst themselves as the feast is voided, while other stewards set out the banquet on long tables alongside one of the walls of the hall, and the musicians come down from the Gallery to set up again nearby.

Standing alongside a door-jamb, goblet in hand, Rich looks about carefully and views the movement of people minutely. Across the hall, the musicians are playing a jaunty tune, that primped peacock Smeaton leading them from his lute. Where the hell is he getting his money from - surely the King is not _that_ generous? Perhaps he is - the youth's talent has won him a great deal more favour than his birth warrants. The young man moves easily, loosely, almost dancing to his own music as his fingers trickle across the fingerboard, and the consort of viols behind him accompany him with equal verve, while the men with shawms and crumhorns that stand to each side create quite the bucolic atmosphere.

All are in their finest clothes this evening, and he is no exception. Dressed in a pale crimson doublet, and a floor-length brown simarre trimmed with fur about his shoulders, he looks no less courtly than anyone else, though - of course - there is always one who refuses to conform, and that crow Cromwell is in his habitual black. God, does he have the Seymours with him? Yes - there is even that chit Jane, standing apart from her mistress this evening and dressed in pale green silk with a pearl-cowled hood. He notes that she has opted for the gabled English style, rather than the more usual rounded French version. It could not be a more obvious statement that she intends to be an entirely different prospect to her Frenchified Queen.

Most congregate at the banquet tables, where sweetmeats and comfits nestle alongside small amusements of fried oysters, crusts of fried bread with minced livers upon them and dishes of cream cheese. The aromas of the meal that preceded are still prevalent in the air, tinged with the accumulated reek of a hundred different perfumes, and the tang of human sweat.

He is not blind to the opinion most have of him - but Rich has never been interested in the accumulation of friends. He does not move in the highest circles, and thus has no need for the power of factions to protect him. Some call him a weasel, but others call him a rat - who circles around those of higher estate and snatches from them what he can.

Today, however, he has a job to do. The King intends to hold an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, and he has been tasked with collecting Chapuys from the Hall. While he waits, however, he lingers. And watches.

"Shall she do it?" Rochford is asking Wiltshire, oblivious to the fact that the burr of conversation is not sufficient to conceal his words from Rich's sharp ears.

"Now that we know the King means to ally with the Empire, the sooner she puts de Castelnau in his place, the better." Wiltshire snaps, still stung by her defiance two days prior, "She knows, as we do, that our future lies with the Empire now that the old woman is finally dead, and thus we must do what we can to build bridges with Chapuys."

"He is over there, by the oysters." Rochford observes.

"Come then." The pair depart, and Rich resumes his surreptitious observations of the Queen's small gathering in a chamber adjoining the hall. She is seated, surrounded by her ladies, a few of her retainers and a gaggle of Ambassadors. De Castelnau is amongst them, but standing behind the Milanese Ambassador, who is engaged in conversation with her. They are all well fed this evening, but her cosmetics seem quite luminous tonight, thanks to her pallor beneath the layers of colour. He can see that she faces a truly unpalatable task - but one that she has no choice but to perform. If she was looking to France to entrench her position, the choice of the King to abandon Francis in favour of Charles has shifted the ground beneath her feet.

"I am given to understand that Milan was occupied by the French." She is saying, smiling at him politely.

"Alas, Majesty," the poor man looks rather embarrassed, for de Castelnau is at his back, "We are still occupied."

"Is that so?" she sits back, looking sympathetic, "Then you are aware, as am I, of the duplicity of the French, are you not? Indeed - is there any man here present who cannot testify to the truth that the French are naught but hypocrites and liars? Have they not promised much, but given little? And what treaties have they made that they have not abrogated? No, sirs, it is safe to say that none should trust the word of a Frenchman."

The laughter is polite, but nervous; and de Castelnau turns upon his heel and stalks away, brushing past Rich, who watches him depart. If he was her last hope of an ally, then he shall be no longer. Shaking his head, he turns again at the sound of the King's voice summoning him, "Majesty?"

"I shall speak with the Imperial Ambassador. Fetch him to me."

"Yes, Majesty."

Across from him, Cromwell is thick as thieves with the Seymours, he notes, as he makes his way past the gathering to where Chapuys has been accosted by the elder Boleyns - presumably attempting to salvage some degree of regard from a man that they have previously rather rudely dismissed. Certainly, Chapuys seems disinterested in their overtures, though he is not impolite enough to ignore them entirely. Being dispatched by the King, Rich has no concerns at interrupting, "Your Excellency." He says, bowing, "Follow me."

Chapuys smiles, cheerfully, at his unwanted companions, "Ah. Excuse me."

As he leads the Ambassador back, Rich glances behind to see that, astonishingly, the two Boleyns are following them. Are they truly so convinced of their importance that they think they can intrude upon a private audience? Only Lord Chancellor Audley is expected to be present, along with Cromwell as the architect of all, of course. Shaking his head at their impudence, he shows in the Ambassador, and conceals a smirk as the King waves Wiltshire and Rochford away with a frown.

Cromwell, on the other hand, enters the room where the King, Audley and Chapuys converse quietly. Though his ears are as sharp as those of the rodent after which some name him, Rich cannot hear what they say; but the look on the Crow's face suggests that, whatever it is, it shall be of greater benefit to the Seymours than the Boleyns. Why else would he be associating with them?

But then something shifts in the atmosphere within the room. Has Chapuys said something that the King does not like? The laughter has ceased, the smile has faltered to a frown - and Cromwell has stiffened, so he must've heard the mis-step. God, what has he said? Immediately Rich concentrates upon blotting out the noise of the music in hopes of capturing some of that fleeting discussion. Whatever Chapuys has intimated, it is not within the script that Cromwell had prepared. For a time, Rich cannot hear what is being said, and can only see the look upon the King's face as he speaks words that can only be tinged with anger, or spite. Gradually, however, the volume rises, and finally becomes audible to him.

"And what is it that his Imperial _Fishwife_ is suggesting, Excellency? What is it that _your master_ is saying?" The king's voice has risen to a point that it is now audible beyond the doorway, "Does he think me less than a man? That I am incapable of bearing sons?"

God above, where on earth has _that_ sentiment come from? To Rich's knowledge, which is - to be frank - gleaned only from the vaguest of rumours, there has been no mention at all of the lack of a male heir to the throne of England throughout any part of the negotiations. No wonder Cromwell has gone so still. Of all the things he would have prompted Chapuys to say, that would have been nowhere near the list; and Chapuys is far too canny an individual to make such an error. Indeed, from his expression, he appears to resemble a deer catching first sight of the hunting hounds.

"Am I not a man?" He says, louder still, then rises to a shout, " _AM I NOT?_ "

Even Rich jumps at that, while the hall goes silent. Stunned at his rage, Chapuys bows low, and hastily withdraws.

But it is not yet over. Instead, he stalks out in the Ambassador's wake, "I demand that the Emperor's conditions be set out in writing, d'you hear? In writing!"

Cromwell's eyes have widened, while Audley looks equally nonplussed - no King shall do such a thing as that. It has never been done…

"I shall do nothing further until your Master has issued an apology to me for all of his duplicity and lies! He must accept Queen Anne as the lawful Queen of England, and the Princess Elizabeth as my lawful progeny!"

"Majesty…I…" Chapuys looks helpless; all present know that it shall not happen.

The King snatches at the Ambassador's simarre, and shakes him like a rat, "Take that back to your master, _Excellency_ ; or there shall be no treaty between us!"

Fortunately he releases Chapuys, who bows hastily, and flees with the few remaining rags of his dignity.

From his vantage point, Rich can see that both Cromwell and Audley are most discomfited, and smiles to himself. A few feet away, however, the smugness upon the faces of Wiltshire and Rochford is a sight to behold.

If any thought that Queen Anne was a tottering edifice set shortly to fall, then the apparent erection of a buttress by the King has changed that entirely. And so the positions shall shift again - and now all shall see who shall stand, and who shall fall.


	5. Death in Wiltshire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is...the chapter you've all been waiting for!

Free of the constraints of her stays, enclosed in the soft linen of her nightgown, Anne sits back in her chair beside the fire, and eases out a shaky breath. In spite of all her strong words, the moment that she discovered that her father had been able to outmanoeuvre her and force her to speak out against de Castelnau had been a bitter one. Now, however, the King has outmanoeuvred them all - and publicly demanded that she be accepted as his Queen. The improvement in her mood brought her out to dance once more, secure in a sense of his insistence that they are man and wife.

Now to make hay in the midst of that unexpected ray of sunshine.

"I am told that Mr Cromwell is most put out." Jane says quietly, as she brushes Anne's hair, "All of his work to secure the treaty destroyed."

"What did Chapuys say?" Anne asks, "I knew nothing of it until his Majesty shouted."

"No one can say - it appears as though the King turned upon him unprompted and without warning."

Anne's eyes widen - how strange; her husband has always been capricious, and with a temper of great violence when roused. She is also aware that his moods can be highly unpredictable, but she has not known him to behave in such fashion towards such a highly placed Ambassador before.

"That is peculiar." she asks, mostly to herself.

"Perhaps his Majesty had heard rumours from the Continent." Jane muses, setting the brush down and drawing up a chair, "I have no doubt that whatever plans were laid would have sought to return the Lady Mary to the succession. There is no doubting that such a requirement would be at the forefront of any negotiation for a treaty with the Empire."

"That is true; for the validity of our marriage has ever been in dispute from the moment we wed. To have Katherine's brat set ahead of Elizabeth would intimate that there is no hope of a son from our union, for it is not blessed by God." Anne finishes, "After all that was done to grant me the Crown, that would have stung his self-regard like nothing else. No wonder he spoke as he did." She turns to Jane, "We must act quickly - or we shall lose the initiative. The King has demanded that I be accepted as his Queen, and I must take steps to remind him what prompted him to chase after me when first I arrived."

"Indeed so, Majesty. Once that is accomplished, then we shall be safe."

"From your husband, and my father." Anne smiles.

"I fear so, Majesty."

* * *

Cromwell is chewing at the inside of his cheek, and looks remarkably sour. Even now, he cannot understand why the King behaved as he did towards the Ambassador. The requirement to return England to the rule of the Roman Church, and to restore the Lady Mary to her former state were inevitable conditions, but for Henry to explode upon Chapuys as he did? No; there is more to it than that. There has to be; such terms could have been negotiated out of a final treaty document, that is the entire point of negotiations, after all. It is not as though there is a final document to be signed at this stage.

He does not like to think of the aftermath of Henry’s outburst; he had been most irked at the sudden turnabout of all his work, and had permitted his annoyance to spill over into an argument with the King over humiliating Chapuys, and making his own Ministers look like fools in the process. That Audley was equally put-out is immaterial, for he, Cromwell, had then stalked out of the Privy Chamber in a temper, slumped onto a bench in a corridor and demanded a drink from a passing steward in front of half the Court.That his Majesty has called him to his presence this morning is slightly unnerving, as he is uncomfortable that the favour he enjoys has been damaged by his behaviour.

Shown in by one of the Grooms, Cromwell finds the King seated at the great table that he uses for his work, and looking remarkably benign, “Ah, Mr Cromwell; please, be seated.There is much to discuss.”

It is hard to conceal the bemused frown that aches to grace his brow, but Cromwell keeps his expression neutral, and does as bid.Half-expecting to be upbraided for his poor manners the previous evening, it is as though Henry has forgotten everything that was said.

“It seems that God will not grant me any sons from this marriage, Mr Cromwell,” Henry says, almost as though thinking aloud, “and thus I am minded to seek a new wife.”

Suddenly he sees it - as though scattered fragments have fallen into place and revealed the picture that was hidden.Henry’s treatment of Chapuys was indeed to send a message; just not the one that it appeared to be.

“It is your intention to end your marriage to the Queen.” He says, quietly.

Henry nods, “I am tired of Cranmer’s insistence that to end this accursed union shall cause all to look upon me as a fool.Better to look so, than to have no son to continue my line.I wish to dissolve my marriage, and seek one that is more suitable in God’s sight.”

It would not do for the Emperor to believe that Henry is ending his marriage to the Queen for the benefit of a treaty with the Empire - that is indeed true - and thus Henry demands that the Emperor recognise Anne as Queen, and Elizabeth as his heir.Then he casts both into oblivion, demonstrating to all that he does so according to his own will, and not that of a foreign power. No doubt there shall be no reciprocal return to favour for Mary, but instead both children shall be bastards until some woman can provide him with the son he desires. Hardly subtle; but it has been a long time since this King has shown any subtlety.

Already, Cromwell’s mind is racing, working his way through the problem; who to seek for assistance, how to take the matter forth…

“See to it, Mr Cromwell.”Henry’s voice interrupts his silent planning.

“Yes, Majesty.”

* * *

_And thus we start all over again_ , Cromwell thinks to himself. Once again, a Queen has outlived her usefulness to Henry in his all-consuming quest for a son, and must be removed and replaced.

“Might I interest you in a cup of sack, Mr Cromwell?”

Rousing himself from his musings, Cromwell looks up at the Dean of the Chapel Royal, who is smiling and indicating a flagon on a nearby dresser.Returning the smile, he nods.

Rather than summon a steward, Reverend Sampson pours out the liquor himself, “I presume you seek counsel on a matter of Ecclesiastical law.I cannot imagine any other reason for your wishing to see me.”

Sampson’s study is a small space filled with shelves that are almost groaning with a multiplicity of documents and books of the law.Of all the Church lawyers in the Realm, he is the foremost; and well able to assist him in laying the grounds for a second royal divorce.Particularly as he provided that same service for the first.

Accepting a proffered cup, Cromwell nods, “Indeed I do; and on a specific matter in which you have already demonstrated great facility.”

Sampson pauses, then slowly settles into his fine chair, “Then it is true.The King has tired of the Queen.”

Of course he knows that. _Everyone_ knows that.

“He seeks a means to annul the marriage; for it has become clear to him that God looks upon it with disfavour.Instead, he seeks to make a better marriage that is less…controversial.”

“And so you have come to me.”

“There is no one better.In order to invalidate this marriage, it must be shown that it was founded upon false ground.I believe that we might demonstrate its invalidity partly in the clandestine nature of the first marriage ceremony, and in that both that _and_ the second ceremony took place while his Majesty was still married to his first wife.”

Sampson shakes his head, “It was rendered invalid after the fact by the Archbishop’s declaration, and the marriage to Queen Anne declared valid.That shall not do.”

Cromwell does not flinch; it was only his first suggestion, “And what of precontract?”

“The Queen was promised to another prior to her marriage?” Sampson’s interest is now piqued.

“I recall, prior to the first ceremony, that Lady Eleanor Percy petitioned that her marriage to Henry Percy of Northumberland be annulled upon such grounds.Her claim was that he had advised her in the midst of some marital contretemps or other that he and the Queen had been betrothed.”

“This was known at the time?” Sampson asks, shocked, “If that is so, then why did the marriage proceed?”

Cromwell smiles, thinly, “The King’s will is all, Mr Sampson; furthermore, both parties denied most heartily that such a thing had occurred between them.Thus the matter was quietly forgotten, and Lady Eleanor was obliged to remain married.”

Sampson sips from his cup, clearly thinking the matter over most carefully.At length, he looks up again, “If we are to proceed, then we shall need to find witnesses who shall swear that the Queen was betrothed to Henry Percy.By its nature, a betrothal such as this shall not be documented in writing; but a witness is sufficient, though I should prefer more than one if possible.”

“I am sure that one can be secured.”Cromwell opts not to elaborate on the implications of such a suggestion.The King wills, the King must have.That is motive enough.

“And, of course, you shall have to ensure that the Queen is willing to relinquish her crown.I singularly doubt that _that_ shall be so easy.”

He is, of course, correct.It has never been treasonous for a Queen to refuse to relinquish her crown.As Queen Anne has been both anointed _and_ crowned, her refusal to do so shall be likely - and impossible to counter.Unless, of course, refusing to relinquish the crown _becomes_ treasonous.Change the law, then institute a commission to investigate her refusal as treason.Hardly just; but since when has the law been a servant of justice?

“That shall not be troublesome.You work upon securing the means to dissolve the marriage.I shall work upon securing the means to force her to leave once that is done.”

* * *

The atmosphere in the Privy Chamber is sombre; unnervingly so. The Privy Councillors are assembled, standing before the King's great table as he sits opposite, and regards them silently.

Cromwell remains impassive as always; but then, he knows why they are there.In the four days since his first meeting with Reverend Sampson, much work has been done to ensure that the King’s marriage can be dissolved.Consequently, the framework upon which that dissolution shall be built is largely complete, and now the Henry is setting one last mechanism in place, to counter the inevitable moment when Queen Anne refuses to step aside for a new wife.

While making such an act illegal shall be a simple matter, as the King is regularly disposed to amend the law of his own volition if the mood takes him, he shall need a means to bring about the King’s will, and thus his Majesty is laying the foundations for that move this morning.

"Gentlemen." Henry begins, his voice cold, "It has come to our attention that acts of treason against ourself and our realm have been committed, alongside other injuries to our person by those whom we have loved, and favoured above all others. Acts that are a betrayal of our love, and trust - and committed by members of our own Court."

Cromwell frowns; this is not what he advised the King to say.His eyes flit to the side, and he can see that Suffolk is the only one present who does not look nonplussed. He knows of these supposed offences - and also, presumably, who has committed them.What has happened while he has been with Sampson?

"Mr Rich."

Startled, Rich looks up.

"As Solicitor General, I am appointing you, and Mr Cromwell, to establish a Commission of Oyer and Terminer to investigate these acts against us.I shall also appoint Mr Audley, Norfolk, Suffolk and Mr Paget as commissioners, to commence work once you have established the terms of the Commission."

Both men bow, though Rich's eyes flick up towards the man with whom he has been asked to stand. Of all the men in the room, why Cromwell? Pragmatism or no, he would rather work with the devil than Cromwell.

With no further instructions, Henry rises to his feet, "Good day, Gentlemen." And leaves.

As the councillors disperse, Rich can see that Cromwell is still unsure of what on earth he is being asked to investigate. That the King has claimed acts of treason against him is one thing, but who does he think is responsible? As he turns to speak to Rich, an usher emerges from the King's private apartment, "Mr Cromwell, Mr Rich - the King asks you to attend him."

Ah. Now he shall have it. Leaving Rich in his wake, Cromwell follows the usher into the King's presence.

* * *

Seated at his desk, Cromwell sighs. Now he knows what it is that he has been set to uncover, he feels rather sick.

"How shall we proceed?" Rich asks, entirely unconcerned, it seems.

"We shall speak to her closest women, Mr Rich. The ones who attend her most frequently. If there is anything to be discovered, we shall gain it from them."

"Do we interview them here, or at the Tower?"

Cromwell looks up at him, "The Tower? Dear God, Mr Rich; why would we do such a thing as that?"

"I…" Rich cannot think of a reason that shall not make him appear an unchivalrous brute. Instead he turns hastily and returns to his desk to continue with his own work.

Left alone, Cromwell looks at the blank sheet of paper before him, and ponders what to do. Of all the acts of treachery that he could have imagined, the infidelity of the Queen is the last of them. Whether he likes her or not, he is well aware that she has never - at any time - abandoned the vows that she made to the King when she married him. In an ants' nest such as this, nothing remains a secret - nothing. All knew about the King's dalliances with her ladies - and even the attempts to remain discreet with the Seymour girl were abject failures, in spite of his own efforts to help to conceal them. No - Queen Anne has never dallied with another man. Flirted, perhaps, even entertained men in her apartments - but never alone, and never concealed. Queens are always in the company of other women, so when on earth could she have had the opportunity?

And - once again - an enormous swathe of hard work is to be swept aside at the King’s whim.In the midst of his efforts to establish the means to end the King’s marriage, Henry has opted to find a quicker way - and remove her rather more brutally.

But what act of treason should it be? To his mind, she has committed none.Infidelity might well be a sin; but it is not treason.God have mercy, not another change in the law to institute.Unless of course, there is some other matter of which he is not yet aware that shall be revealed by the Queen’s women…

The sound of rushing footsteps interrupts his train of thought.Startled, he looks up as Sadleir approaches, "Mr Cromwell, I have just heard. The King has appointed Sir Nicholas Carew to the Order of the Garter - in spite of his relationship to my Lord Rochford. I am given to understand that Rochford is most put out, and is even now stamping back and forth in his chambers calling curses down from upon high for the loss of the honour."

In spite of himself, Cromwell is surprised at such a turn of events. While both Carew and Rochford were the most likely candidates to be granted that one lone place in the King's august brotherhood, it was considered a certainty that Rochford, as the King's brother-in-law, would receive it. A familial relationship would inevitably set its owner ahead of any competitor in the granting an honour such as this.

But what the hell is he doing, throwing a tantrum in his quarters? Has he truly become so self-assured that he is above royal censure that he would do such a thing as that? That he is passionate in his emotions is hardly unknown - but he is a fool if he thinks that such a display shall go unmarked, or be seen as anything else but unworthy ingratitude for all that he has already received.

Shaking his head, Cromwell returns to his work. He would like nothing more than to see the Boleyns brought down, for their ascendancy - even if he has tied himself to it - was built upon the ruins of Wolsey's demise. He has never forgotten that. It was Wolsey who gave him his entry to the Court; Wolsey whose patronage enabled him to overcome his base-born origins - and then Norfolk and his Boleyn relatives banded together to rob him of his power and take it for themselves. Even now, he feels guilt for stepping into the Boleyn party - though he did not do so until after Wolsey had fallen beyond redemption, and he had been obliged to do so, or fall too. But at last he has the opportunity to strike back at those who destroyed the man who made him. Unfortunately, he cannot destroy the men without destroying the woman.

If only they had not turned against one another. To this day he regrets that. Her magnificent intelligence, and remarkable understanding of politics, are far greater than one would expect to see in a mere woman. But then, she is no 'mere' woman - God, they could have been at the forefront of a grand English renaissance to match that of the Courts on the continent - if only the King could have seen that the character that had so attracted him to her when he wanted her as a mistress, could have been a boon to him once he had her as a wife.

What they might have achieved…

Someone laughs loudly, a few feet away, startling him out of his reverie, and he shakes himself. It is pointless to think on what might have been. Not when one must act to overturn all possibility of it.

After three hours of writing, Cromwell sits back, tiredly. It is done: his plans to question the Queen's ladies as a starting point - what he shall ask, how they can be threatened if they refuse to aid him. Rochford's tantrums are a last flicker of lightning as the storm blows itself out. The star of the Boleyns is seeing its final fits and starts before it gutters and burns to nothing.

And he must be the one who seeks out the means to drive it into darkness.

* * *

The party of men is small, and lightly guarded; but nonetheless they are bent upon a mission, and one of them has no intention at all of being present during the events to come.

Looking out of the leaded windows over the grounds of Windsor Castle, Suffolk adjusts his sleeves and ignores the degrees of hypocrisy in what he is doing - for the King is abandoning his wife to court another woman, while that wife is being investigated for adultery: an accusation for which there is little, if no, evidence at all other than the light gossip that he himself has brought to the King's attention.

He is no stranger to the pleasures of a tumble out of wedlock; chasing skirts was a favourite pastime throughout his youth and early years at Court. Even now, he pays little attention to the promises he has made before God to be faithful only to one woman - but he does so on the assumption that she shall not do likewise. If the Queen has done so, then she must know that it is treasonous to do it.

_Wretched woman_ , he thinks to himself, reaching for his riding gauntlets, why the hell could she not accept that her purpose was to be a pretty ornament to enhance the King's glory, and to push out a multitude of sons? That she has caused the upheaval of the Church, and the destruction of a far better Queen than she could ever have been is crime great enough - but to entertain men in her apartments? To dance, and flirt and argue and be defiant to her lord and husband? No matter what else, that in itself is treachery. It is the prerogative of a man to seek pleasure from other women outside of their marriage vows - but not for a woman to look to other men. She should have known and accepted it as her predecessor did.

He thinks back to their conversation two nights ago, before they departed from Placentia. The Queen's behaviour had apparently gone unnoticed until he had pointed it out - and now the King is becoming ever more suspicious that her flirtations have been more than mere verbal dalliances and dances, but that she has gone further still, and welcomed men into her bed.It was hardly a difficult task to achieve, after all; Henry is eager to find some means to remove her from his sight as quickly as can be managed.

Being unwilling to be present in case he is accosted by a woman devious and clever enough to entrap him into making a public promise to her, he has suggested that they follow upon the heels of the departing Seymours, and particularly the Seymour daughter, so that he can soothe his sore temper with the soft ointments of her gentle manner.

It shall be a long day in the saddle, a night in a rather less-than-fine manor at Newbury, and then another long day after that; not to mention numerous changes of horses given that they mean to travel with all haste. It shall be worth the discomfort, though; for there shall be a goodly feast upon which they can sup at journey's end, and hunting on the next day. Swallowing the last of his small ale, he gathers his cloak and bonnet, and heads down to the mews to find his horse.

Henry is in good spirits again - but then he was also in good spirits the last time he rode west. Suffolk was not with him then; but his mood upon his return suggested at the time that he had left his heart there, and longed to go back. Now - with one of his closest friends in tow - he is getting his wish, while his wife knows nothing of the net being woven to cast about her and fish her out of the waters of the Court. He, for certainty, shall not miss her when she is gone.

Spring is flourishing in earnest now, and they ride through verdant woodlands alive with bluebells and birdsong, while rabbits and deer flee before them. Fortunate creatures indeed, for the hunt shall be taking place two days hence, and far away from here.

While Suffolk has no concerns over the influence that the Seymour girl shall have, should she be installed at court in place of Anne, his thoughts lie instead with the altogether more ambitious Edward. Sir John is a spent force - far too old to hope to make much from such an opportunity - but the elder of the two sons is young enough, and keen enough, to take all that he can grasp should his sister be granted the throne.

He pauses at the thought. The commission has not yet reported - but still he assumes that they shall succeed in their steps to remove the unwanted Anne. Can he be sure that they shall succeed? Even Cromwell? Most courtiers might be helpless against a singleminded man such as he - but she is not like most courtiers. Whether he likes her or not, he cannot pretend to himself that she lacks the strength of will, and political skill, to talk her way out of whatever accusations are set before her. Even the King must know that - so perhaps they shall not allow her to talk.

It all depends, of course, upon what evidence is found.

They sup as guests of a minor nobleman in a small Manor on the outskirts of Newbury, a place that has welcomed them before. Seated before a repast of stewed hare, broiled pheasants and butter-drenched bread still just warm from the ovens, Henry eats with a will; an almost ravenous determination to consume all set before him. That the King has always had an appetite is hardly unknown to Suffolk, but this is different - as though he is beset by an insatiable hunger that no amount of victuals shall assuage. No wonder his girth is widening. It might be mostly concealed by his height, but the King has not jousted, or played tennis, since his fall in January. He has never given a reason for such a change in habits, but Suffolk is not unaware that there is a strange smell about his King now - tinges of putrefaction that no amount of expensive scent can conceal. He has fought in wars, and he knows the reek of an infected wound. There is an injury present that the King is attempting to hide. There must be. God - what if it poisons his blood? If he were to die before the Commission has found a way to remove Anne, then what would there be to stop Norfolk and his Boleyn sycophants from taking the reins of government and seeking to rule for themselves?

Chilled by the thought, he pushes his plate aside; his appetite thoroughly lost.

* * *

The sun is setting as they enter the gates of the Seymour estate astride the sixth change of horses since they left Newbury at a near-gallop. How long since the Court was here? A scant four months, it seems - entertained by musicians and sports, and apparently happy: but now there is a shadow over the Court. No wonder the King is so keen to escape it.

Sir John is - naturally - delighted that the King has returned again, barely more than a fortnight after he departed, "Your room is prepared for you, Majesty," he burbles, as Henry smiles and is led through the corridors to the chamber that now bears his name, "And a fine haunch of beef has been turning since this morning. We have procured the finest claret for your Majesty's pleasure."

"Thank you, Sir John." To Suffolk's ear, he sounds as he did long ago, before the awfulness of the removal of his Queen to make way for the Boleyn woman, "I am glad to be back. I hope that we shall ride out tomorrow?"

"Most certainly." The elder Seymour continues, "There is a good herd of deer that we can seek out in the parkland."

"And how is Miss Seymour?" He has remained quiet about her for a surprising time.

"She is most well, Majesty. If it be your pleasure, perhaps she might join us tomorrow to ride? She is well schooled."

"That would indeed be my pleasure."

Behind him, Suffolk knows that the elder Seymour Brother, the dour Edward, is looking rather proud. The opportunities for his own advancement upon the train of his sister's skirts are immense, and the thought that he had come so close to losing those opportunities must have singularly dented that pride. Now, however, the King is here again, and clearly keen for the Seymour girl - thus restoring all his plans to gain what he can from his sister's rise.

Rather like the Boleyns, when he thinks upon it.

Supper is a merry affair, far merrier than the forced gaiety of the feast on Lady Day. Miss Seymour is pliant, quiet and - if he is truly honest - rather insipid; but the King fawns over her with a display of Courtly Love that seems quite ridiculous in their altogether more prosaic surroundings. Does she know?

He looks across at her, eyelids demurely lowered; yes, she knows. She is watching him carefully from beneath those lashes, gauging his every move. Suffolk finds himself wondering if the words 'well schooled' refer to her ability to ride side-saddle, or a careful education in how to charm the King. She knows little of any substance - though she is at least literate - and her voice is soft and slightly high pitched. Jane has none of the intelligence of Anne, nor of the late Queen Katherine - God rest her - though there is an edge to her, a sense of understanding of human nature. If nothing else, she has read the King with far greater skill than the books that are largely closed to her, and is making the best use of that knowledge. She is no mere plant set before the King as a sweetmeat - no, there is more to it than that. She has been one of the Queen's ladies for long enough to know what he demands from a woman - and what repels him.

Ah well - he could have chosen worse, perhaps. With the matter of removing the Queen now in Cromwell's hands, it shall be done. Cromwell has never failed to work the King's will, after all. Then this woman shall enter the Court, and become Henry's wife in the Boleyn woman's place, and all shall be right again. The smell that he detected when they dined has dissipated, and he fancies that he imagined it. No, the King shall not die before Anne is removed. He has nothing to fear upon that score.

Sitting back in his chair, Suffolk sips at the claret which is not as good as Sir John claimed it to be, and loses himself in imaginings of how the Court shall be once Queen Anne has been sent packing - and is replaced by Queen Jane.

* * *

They have been riding for nearly an hour in the bright light of early morning, and as of yet, there is no sign that the hounds shall need to be loosed. Instead, they move at an easy pace that shall not test the riders. With his experienced eye, it is clear to Suffolk that John Seymour is a weak horseman, and he is sure that, should they enter into a chase, the old man shall be left far, far behind. Edward, on the other hand, is handling his mettlesome gelding with ease and skill, while the younger son, a youth barely with whiskers upon his chin by the name of Thomas, looks keen to be off at the gallop.

A few paces behind, Jane and a brace of ladies are following, their riding habits billowing somewhat in the light breeze. She is not perhaps the most gifted of riders, but nor is she incompetent, and the King is most solicitous, riding alongside her, engaging her in conversation that seems primarily to cover how beautiful their surroundings are, and wondering what bird has just called so loudly from the nearby hedge.

To be fair - their surroundings are truly wonderful: green undulating hills that stretch for miles in all directions, with the occasional church tower rising from a valley in the distance. High above their heads, he can hear a skylark chattering away, while woodpigeons flock from field to field, driven off by boys clattering at pots with sticks, or bringing them down with stones fired from catapults. Puffs of fair-weather clouds drift lightly across a deep blue sky as they travel along a ridge crowned with rabbit-nibbled grass, and scattered here and there with clumps of bracken and gorse from which the occasional bird clatters in fear as they pass. Even if they see nothing to bring down, the ride is, in itself, a great pleasure. There are no guards present, for his Majesty insisted they remain behind, and so they rest and enjoy a day at equal leisure.

Idly, he wonders how matters are progressing in London. Cromwell shall not have had much in the way of time to begin his investigation, though Suffolk has no doubt that it shall start with the Queen's ladies. Of all the people at Court, none know as well as they do that woman's doings. No matter how loyal they might be, they shall not hide her secrets for long. Cromwell is too good at ferreting out such secrets for that. Much as he dislikes the man for his base-born origins, he cannot deny that he has talent. But for that, he would be fortunate to have become more than a simple clerk.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," Sir John's voice breaks into his thoughts, "I fear that the deer are shy today - but no matter, for another mile shall see us within the woods, and there we shall find some sport."

"There is no need to apologise, Sir John," Henry answers, brightly, "Miss Seymour is keeping me most entertained."

Somehow, Suffolk doubts that. The girl has hardly spoken above a shy whisper from the moment they left. She's a clever one - he heard her chattering with her maids this morning, and he knows full well that her shyness is but a pretence. Henry has been hooked, and now she takes great care to reel him in like a floundering carp in a pond.

They pause at the top of the ridge, and Sir John points downwards, "There, Majesty. That is the most likely place where we shall find the deer."

The King stops his horse alongside his host, "Indeed so. Loose the hounds, Sir John, let us ride down and scatter them!"

"Majesty?" Seymour stares at him, surprised, "The bank is most steep, would it not be better to take the path?"

"And lose the element of surprise? Pshaw!" Henry scoffs, "A slope so little? I have no fear of such a thing!"

Suffolk shakes his head, smiling to himself. It could not be more blatant that Henry is demonstrating his prowess to impress the girl. Laughing loudly, the King slaps his heels to his horse's flanks, and urges the animal on, sending it scrambling downhill at a breakneck pace. The faces of their hosts are a picture - but he has seen it before. Henry is more than capable of handling a ride such as this; once he is at the bottom, he shall laugh at them for their fears.

But then the horse pecks suddenly, and the movement is followed an instant later by a sharp, horrible crack, as though someone has fired a musket. Behind him, he hears Jane utter a sharp scream, and then all seems to slow down almost to nothing at all.

Helplessly, Suffolk watches as the horse pitches forward, tumbling over its head and hurling the King downwards. Man and animal seem bound to one another as he seems unable to extricate himself from his saddle, and the pair roll violently down the remains of the steep bank, a distance of nearly ten feet, before halting violently at the bottom.

_Christ have mercy…_ Suffolk is looking around wildly, "The King! Quickly, to his aid!" He does not dare to risk the same calamity, and instead takes his horse down the winding path that shall lead him safely to where man and horse have come to rest. Such is his wish for haste that the short ride seems to last for years; what if the King is still living - or is close to death and desires to express his final wishes?

As he approaches the scene, he all but flings himself from the saddle and scrambles across to where the horse lies, still living, but making the most horrible noises of pain. Now he can see what has occurred - for the poor beast's foreleg is snapped. He must've put his hoof down into a rabbit hole. Looking back up the bank, he can see that it's dotted with them. The whole slope must be undermined by the warren.

"Majesty?" He looks about, dear Christ, where is the King?

Then his flitting eyes stop, and he realises that he cannot see Henry because he lies beneath the fallen body of the horse. No…no, no, no, he was only lightly speculating when he thought of what might follow if the King died before Anne could be removed…

The beaters are approaching, running frantically to join him as Edward Seymour also arrives, leaping from his horse, stumbling, falling, rolling. He cannot regain his feet and instead scrambles forth upon all fours to reach them.

"Where is he? Where is the King?" He pants, frantically.

"Beneath the horse." Suffolk snaps, shortly, and looks up to the beaters, "Help me to shift the animal - quickly! One of you fetch a sheep hurdle, we shall need to carry his Majesty back to the house!"

A house that is four miles away.

Someone steps forth and quickly shoots the horse to still it. There is nothing that can be done for the beast, but there might still be hope for the man. Suffolk is cold inside - when Henry fell beneath the horse at the Joust, he was in armour. Here, he is not.

It takes four men to roll the horse's carcass to the side, but as soon as they have done so, he knows that it is too late. Beside him, Edward turns away, while one of the beaters stumbles off and vomits behind a stand of gorse. The King must have struck a stone on the way down; for his head is all bashed in, with grey matter and blood all seeped out of the gaping crater. No - there is nothing that can be done for him. Nothing.

Slowly, he makes his way up the hill, and sees that he is right. A small outcrop of stone smeared with blood and red-gold hair amidst the flattened grasses that display the path of the King's fall. Fortunately the ladies are still waiting at the top of the hill, for Sir John has kept them there. Trembling, nauseous, he turns to look down the bank again to where Edward Seymour is covering the bloody, smashed corpse with one of the beater's cloaks.

"We must not speak of this." He says, rejoining Seymour, "Not yet. None must know until I have returned to London. You must ensure that all are sworn to secrecy. If this gets out, then there is no telling what shall happen. I must return to London to ensure that all holds together."

Seymour nods, "Agreed, your Grace."

A cloud covers the sun, shadowing the ghastly ruin at their feet. No one was prepared for this eventuality - and there is nothing set down for the future of the realm. The secret is now theirs - and what follows shall be entirely in their hands.


	6. A Dance of Factions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your comments and kudos - all of which is greatly appreciated. Henry is - by sheer mischance - unexpectedly dead. Now people start taking their positions to fight for what they want in the new England...

None of the beaters want to handle the body, and Suffolk is not sure whether it is because of the horrible damage to the skull, or because it is the body of the King. Someone is dragging across a large wattle sheep hurdle, but it requires a great deal of angry shouting on the part of the younger Seymour, and not a few blows, to get them to lift the corpse and bundle it onto the improvised bier. Additional shouting persuades them to lift it, one at each corner, and follow the horses as the party makes its slow, shattered progress back to the house.

The journey takes more than an hour, allowing for changes of bearers of the hurdle, and those who did not attend the hunt stare in shock as the cloak-shrouded body of their King is carried into the hall, and set upon the long trestle that stands in the middle of the space.

"Get the women upstairs." Edward orders, firmly, as he can see that his sister is distraught, "Steep some calming herbs in some wine and get it to them." He stares at the frozen servants, "At _once!_ "

Suffolk stands alongside the table, and the corpse atop it concealed under scarlet velvet stained with mud, grass and the rust-brown of drying blood. God have mercy - how could this have happened? This morning, all had seemed so peaceful - that wretched woman was facing the consequences of her harlotry, and the King was in the company of a far better marital prospect. Now, however, the King is dead, and the hated Anne remains alive. Worse - they have not had the opportunity to overturn the bastardy of the true Queen's daughter - and instead the law as it stands grants her half-sister the throne.

A child that is barely three years old.

His mind is racing: Elizabeth is far, far too young to rule - and no Kingdom has ever prospered when ruled by a child. No - he must be at the centre. It must be for him to break the news - for him to step forth as Lord Protector, and ensure that those damned Boleyns do no more damage to England, her throne, or her Church.

"I swear to you, Majesty." He says, softly, "I swear it upon the peril of my mortal soul, I shall protect your legacy. They shall not take it from you. There is one who is fit to rule - far more fit than a mere toddling babe. Forgive me - but the succession must be placed in _her_ hands if England is to survive."

Bowing his head, he prays awhile, and then genuflects. Enough of sworn oaths. There is one heir who is old enough to rule in her own right - and it is not Elizabeth.

He knows that he is breaking faith with his King, and his friend; but what other choice is there? As long as the death remains unknown, he has control. He cannot afford to lose that control.

Turning, he can see the Seymour men standing at the end of the hall, alongside the screens that conceal the entrance from the kitchens. They are muttering between themselves, and he knows that they are equally keen upon grasping what they can from this calamity. Being as low-ranked as they are, they need someone of more consequence to ally with them if they are to succeed in such an aim. Necessity makes for strange bedfellows, it seems.

He has a choice, of course. He can abandon them to ignominy and proclaim them to be at fault for what has happened. From the look upon the elder's face, that is his greatest fear: the King has been killed while a guest of their house, and lesser accidents have led to executions at the behest of injured princes. The threat of that end shall serve him well in securing their allegiance as he positions himself to seize the protectorship. There is no choice: the alternative would be rule in the hands of Norfolk and his Boleyn relatives - and that is a far worse prospect in his eyes.

"We must find a physician," he says, "one who shall declare a cause of death. There must be no suggestion of foul play."

"I shall see to it." Edward calls across a steward, and mutters orders to him.

That is at least in hand. If they can have just a few days' grace, they should be safe: his Majesty had planned to stay for at least a week so none shall mark his absence for at least five more days. Now he must plan how he shall carry the news back to London, "Sir John, fetch in the Captain of the King's guard."

Seymour nods, and turns to a steward to pass on the command. Suffolk is not surprised to find that the man is nearby. So much for a day of rest.

"Are your men gathered?" he asks, as the Captain enters.

"I have called them together, your Grace, but…" he looks uncomfortable.

"But what?" Already, Suffolk's stomach is chilling inside.

"Guardsman Swete is missing, your Grace. He has not been seen since you returned to the house and all saw and heard what had occurred."

 _Oh, dear God_ …someone has been travelling with the party - someone who answers to another man but the King. There was a spy in their ranks - but whose? If this soldier has fled with the news, to whom has he gone?

Who shall be at the head of the council table before he can get back to the Palace - and who shall have control of the new Queen Elizabeth?

* * *

Wiltshire gulps at his wine fretfully, and stares out of the window at the blossoming cherry trees. He sees nothing of the pink flowers that adorn the branches, but instead thinks over and over and over again of what he can do now that the King has fled back west. What has Cromwell and his appointed crew of councillors been tasked with investigating? When the King first talked of a breach of trust, he had smiled complacently, secure in the knowledge that he had overcome the threat of those damned Seymour upstarts - but now he is not so sure.

If Anne is to be recognised as Queen by all, then why the hell has the King gone back to bloody Wulfhall? Damn those Seymours - damn them all to hell and back.

He takes another gulp at the wine, but tips the cup too quickly and spills a portion of it over his pale ivory doublet. Cursing sulphurously, he shouts for his manservant, "Stewart! Get in here, now!" _Bloody Seymours_ …it seems that even this accident is their fault.

The inoffensive young man hastily assists his master in removing the ruined garment, and then hurries into the bedchamber to fetch an alternative from the closet, narrowly avoiding a cuff across the back of the head as he does so. Glowering at the brightly beflowered cherries, Wiltshire snatches the new doublet from his servant's hands, and shrugs into it, before slapping the youth away and fastening the buttons himself. That he has managed to fasten them incorrectly is of no interest to him, nor the fact that his insertion of buttons into the wrong buttonholes looks ridiculously obvious. Instead, he turns on his heel and marches out of his apartments.

There is music playing as he approaches his daughter's presence chamber, a gentle lilting melody that trickles softly from a lute. Smeaton, presumably.

One of the Queen's guards steps forward to stop him, only to be roughly shouldered aside, "Out of my way, damn you!"

The sound of the scuffle shocks everyone into silence, and he finds himself facing a gaggle of women staring at him, while a consort of red-clad court musicians are sitting with their instruments at half-mast. He appears to have walked into a dancing lesson.

"Majesty - a word?" the words are spoken through gritted teeth.

"I am otherwise engaged, your Grace." She answers, calmly, "Perhaps later. Speak to my Stewa…"

"Now!" He interrupts, furiously, then remembers the requirements of protocol, "Majesty."

Anne's expression grows cold, "You have walked into my presence without consent, your Grace; and you have no right to demand my time. You are welcome to return when your temper has settled, and I shall send for you."

His face has turned a fearsome red, and his hands bunch into fists, as though he is sorely tempted to strike her. But not in front of servants…

All remains horribly silent for a moment, as Wiltshire weighs up his options. His authority over her is growing weaker by the day - he can see it - but what of her position as Queen? If his hold over her is weakening, then hers over the King is weaker still. Does she not know that the King has quit the Palace?

Before he can speak, one of the Stewards enters, "Majesty, your chaplain is without."

Anne turns back to her father, "If you could excuse me, your Grace, it is time for our studies of the scriptures. Perhaps in two hours?"

The look he throws at her chills her to the bone. She has seen anger, and blame, before now - but never before has she seen hate. As he has lost her love; in the winning of so petty a battle, so she has now lost his. Should the King turn against her, Thomas Boleyn shall not stand beside her - but instead fling her to the lions to save his own skin. He would have done so anyway - but now he shall do so without so much as a pinch of his conscience.

As he turns and stalks out, Anne sways slightly, and feels as though she might faint. With so many bridges burned behind her - whether by herself, or by others - she has almost no friends left to aid her; there must be someone to whom she can turn, for how can she survive if she must fight alone?

* * *

Rich turns slowly on the spot, taking in the chamber that Cromwell has set aside for their interrogation of the Queen's ladies. It is in a lesser traversed part of the palace, far from the possibility of any witnesses who might report their activities to her Majesty. The room is windowless and unfurnished but for a single table and chair at which the women shall sit, each in their turn, and a small writing desk for a clerk to record what they say. He makes a mental note to secure a chair for himself. More, if the other councillors involved also opt to attend.

Guilt or innocence means nothing to him - the King has his own verdict in mind, and it is their task to secure it for him. An annulment would be utterly humiliating after all that they went through to secure the marriage - but that would be the only solution in the event of her adultery. Assuming, of course, that they can evidence such an act. No - even if they could find evidence, that is not sufficient. They need to uncover a far graver crime.

"It shall have to be treason, Mr Cromwell." He says, his tone remarkably businesslike, "Nothing less shall do. Annulment shall serve only to humiliate the King, shall it not?"

Cromwell turns to him, “Perhaps; though the means to do so was easily available, humiliating or not.It seems, however, that he should rather wear a cuckold’s horns if it shall free him more swiftly.To me, that would be a far greater shame; but the King appears to think otherwise.”

"I assume that he shall demand vengeance for such an injury." It is not a question.

"Indeed he shall." In spite of himself, Cromwell does not sound happy at the prospect. Rich turns, surprised. Surely the Secretary does not have soft feelings for the woman? To his mind, all that is of consequence is the King's will: the tottering foundations beneath Queen Anne must be further undermined, so he shall do as the King demands.

There is no further comment, so he shrugs and turns for the door. They shall seek out the first of the Queen's ladies on the morrow, "If you no longer require my presence, I have work to be done."

Cromwell nods, and grunts a response, still lost in thought. Of all the things that he has been asked to do by his King, this is the first that he has viewed with true unwillingness to comply. Distaste is a regular companion to his business - but to snuff out a remarkably capable woman in so brutal a fashion? No - if he could escape it, he would do so; but, like Christ in Gethsemane, he shall do what he must. _Not what I want, but what you want._

He is not sure how long he stands in the shadows as the candles burn down, lost in thought; until his attention is captured by the sound of heavy footsteps: feet clad in solid riding boots. Looking up, he stares in surprise as the door flies open, admitting a man clad in the livery of the King's guard, "Mr Secretary," he pants, "I bring grave tidings!"

The man is breathing hard, and looks both sweat-slathered and mud spattered - unmistakeable evidence of a long, hard ride. His expression, however, is shocking. Whatever news he brings, he has all but ridden a horse to death to deliver it - thus the tidings must be as grave as he claims - possibly more so.

"Tell me." Cromwell says, almost tentatively, wondering whether it might be wiser to sit down.

Pale, still shaking, Swete begins, "His Majesty went out hunting with the Seymours and his Grace the Duke of Suffolk as was his pleasure yesterday morning. We were granted the day at leisure, for the King had no wish to be accompanied by guards. But as the middle of the morning approached, they returned. His Majesty had taken a fall while riding down a bank, for his horse set its hoof into a rabbit hole and was thrown."

Now Cromwell sits down. He knows what is coming next.

"He was not thrown clear of the falling horse, Mr Secretary, but instead was flung beneath it, and stove in his skull upon a rock set into the hillside. When they found him beneath the animal at the bottom of the hill, he was dead - for his head was smashed and much grey matter and blood had leaked from the hole. We saw the corpse when it was returned to the house - they had attempted to cover it with a cloak; but it slipped as they passed us, and indeed the side of the head was bashed in. It was the King - and he was most assuredly dead."

Cromwell can feel the colour draining from his face, "Who else knows of this?"

"None but Suffolk and the Seymours - who remained at Wulfhall. I slipped away and took horse as soon as I knew all. I was able to change horses at Kintbury, Newbury, Reading and at Windsor - and rode through the night to reach you. The Duke shall be unlikely to commence their return from Wiltshire until the morrow at the earliest. They were thinking to keep the tidings to themselves - though I fear that they shall know that the secret is out when I am missed."

"Was there anyone in the corridor when you came in?"

"None, Sir. There was one man who exited the corridor before I entered it, and did not see me; but there are none within hearing but you and I."

That would've been Rich - returning to the office chambers. Thank God he was not present to overhear this - for God alone knows what he would do with such valuable tidings.

"Thank you, Swete. I suggest that you retire from the Palace. I shall provide you with a letter of introduction to take with you to Stepney. I shall see to it that you cannot be found, and thus shall not be rewarded for your mighty gallop with a journey to the hangman."

"Thank you, Mr Secretary." Accepting that it is a dismissal, Swete bows and hastily departs.

Cromwell sits alone at the table that had been set for the Queen's ladies, and chews at his thumbnail, thinking quickly. Suffolk shall not rest once he knows that one of his retinue has flown - but he cannot act with the degree of swiftness required to halt the spread of the news. Even were he to flee back to London, it is too late - for while Swete risked his life riding through the night to reach Placentia, would Suffolk be so fearless? Possibly, if he were alone, then yes he would - but would he come alone?

Not if he wishes to raise the alarm in any official capacity - no, he would not. Thus there is time. Time to ensure that the vultures that shall encircle the Princess Elizabeth are not given the chance to taste flesh. Besides - what of his own future? Suffolk might be willing to accept his presence, but Norfolk most certainly would not. Regardless of his abilities, he is base-born - and the proud Thomas Howard has always viewed him as an aberration, almost a dread disease that should be eradicated at the first opportunity. If he is to survive - prosperity can be considered later - he must find an ally with whom he can stand. One who has the strength of royal might, the intelligence to use it, and who is free of the taint of factions.

His nibbling of his thumbnail goes down to the quick, and he curses at the pain, withdrawing the digit and seeing a bead of blood. The thought in his head is most unwelcome - but what choice does he have? If he is to navigate safely through the battles to come as the great Lords of the Court fight to control the succession, then there is only one to whom he can turn.

He must turn to the King's widow. He must turn to Queen Anne.

Thinking it over, he hastens back to his offices. He must act quickly to gather his hand of cards in the game to come. Snatching at a quill, he charges it with ink and sets down a sequence of orders. Boleyn might be the Lord Keeper of the King's Privy Seal, but while he guards the privilege of handing the seal most jealously, he has always been more intent upon the rank than the office. Thus the office chamber he should use is frequently empty, while the seal is locked in a well-secured coffer within. Cromwell has long since obtained a key thanks to his need to use it in a secretarial capacity, and is no longer expected to ask before he takes it. Fortunately, he does not need the Great Seal for a matter so small is this - Audley is not even a quarter so accommodating, or absent.

"Ralph." He calls across to Sadleir, "A word. Walk with me."

Gathering the paper, and the seal affixed to it, he guides his secretary out of the offices to an unoccupied chamber, "Listen to me carefully. Take this, and a detachment of guards, to Hatfield, and secure the Lady Elizabeth - with sundry of her Ladies, but not the Lady Mary. Return them to the vicinity of Placentia as soon as you can. Seek a place of concealment that is commensurate to her rank, but sufficiently unknown to be disregarded should a search be undertaken."

Sadleir's eyes widen, "What has happened Mr Cromwell?"

"The King is dead. I shall say no more: the less that you know, the less can be demanded of you, Ralph. None know of this but for you and I, and it must remain that way, so speak of this to no other soul. This letter advises that the King has summoned the Princess back to Court. Brook no disagreements and do not delay. Change horses as frequently as you need to ensure haste. Our very lives may well rest upon the success of your mission."

He is briefly silenced by the catastrophic tidings; but recovers himself remarkably quickly under his employer's steely gaze, "I shall aim to return her to Court as soon as is possible." He promises, and hastens out.

Trembling slightly, Cromwell lets out a long, slow breath. He is playing a dangerous game - but if he is to prevail, he must be the first to bring the news to the Queen - and he must deliver the Princess Elizabeth.

The Princess is being fetched. Now he must speak to the Queen.

* * *

The musicians have gone, and Anne sits beside the fire attempting to embroider, but also attempting to forget last night. Her father might have departed, and in a fearsome temper, but her thoughts are largely focused now upon an act of foolishness upon her part that is largely owing to the quantity of wine she consumed in the course of the evening.

It was all so utterly _stupid_ …and the poor man had done nothing to warrant it - naught but playing the ridiculous game of Courtly Love. He was guilty merely of taking too long - in her opinion - to court Madge Shelton, and in her mildly inebriated state, she had taken him to task over it.

 _When shall you ask Lady Shelton to marry you?_ Her tone had been so peevish.

 _I am thinking upon it_ , Norris had replied, brightly, _I think but to tarry awhile longer_. Yes - playing the game: nothing more. His voice was cheerful, for the music was joyful - and the atmosphere lively. Lively but for her, of course - drifting around the gathering like a lone thundercloud in the heights of summer sun. Did he know of her suspicions? That things are not as safe and secure as she was led to believe? A husband who has demanded that all recognise her as Queen - only to disappear off to Wiltshire, and the house of her rival?

He must know - Henry Norris is a dear friend of the King and the Groom of the Stool, so how could he not?

So much worry…so much fear…and then such a light comment. How dare he be so cheerful in the face of her fear?

_Then you look for dead men's shoes - for if aught came to the King but good, then you would look to have me!_

She shudders, and fumbles with the needle. He had looked appalled at her comment - and with good reason, too. Her words, spoken in heat and haste, could be construed as envisaging the death of the King. A treasonous act.

_If I should have any such thought, Majesty, I would lay my head upon the block and demand it be severed!_

God above - had any who had the ear of the King heard her words, then she would be facing arrest. Thank God they had not.

Or had they? She cannot tell…

One of her ushers approaches, "Majesty, the Master Secretary is without, and seeks an audience."

Her stomach lurches slightly. And so it is true - word of her indiscretion _has_ reached unfriendly ears. Doubtless he comes to make the arrest. Rising to her feet, and squaring her shoulders, she turns to the door, "Show him in, Paul."

"Yes, Majesty."

To her surprise, when he enters, Cromwell bows deeply, "Your Majesty."

"Mr Secretary." Her tone is cold.

"Forgive my intrusion. Are any within earshot?" He looks remarkably uncomfortable. This, she was not expecting.

"Paul, please leave us. Ensure that there are none nearby."

He bows and departs.

Her expression as cold as her voice, Anne glares at Cromwell, "Advise me of your tidings, Mr Secretary. Make haste and then depart. I have other matters to consider."

He dithers for a moment, clearly wondering what to say. So, is she not to be arrested, then? Her temper close to breaking, she speaks sharply, "Tell me what you have come to impart, and then leave!"

"I…" he stops, swallows, and starts again, "I think it might be wise to be seated, Majesty."

"I prefer to stand."

Cromwell shuffles, and looks slightly helpless, "Forgive me - but I bring grave tidings regarding his Majesty the King." He stops again, "Please, Majesty - I truly think it best that you seat yourself."

"Tell me." She insists, stiffly.

"I have just received news from Wiltshire." He says, awkwardly, "I…er…I regret to inform you that his Majesty was thrown from his horse while hunting. Both his Majesty and his horse fell down a steep bank, and…and…" he stops, growing visibly pale.

Watching him, Anne feels a coldness growing in the pit of her stomach. God - he has been gravely injured, and now he is experiencing the tender ministrations of that Seymour slut…

"Your Majesty - I fear that his Majesty was crushed beneath his horse, and was struck upon the head in the midst of the fall. His head was shattered, and when he was removed from beneath the animal, it was found that…that he had not survived. His Majesty the King is…is…dead."

Finally, he spits out the dread word.

Anne's eyes widen, "No…that cannot be. Mr Secretary, do not speak so…that cannot be!" the news seems impossible - remote. No, he is testing her. He knows of her words last night - and now he sets this trap before her, so that he can bring her down and destroy both her, and her daughter. She is too great an obstacle to his plans - he wants rid of her so that she cannot be rid of him.

But then there is a sense of equal horror at the thought of loss. Her husband. Her Henry - he is gone…dead and gone. No, it cannot be so. It cannot…

Her thoughts whirl around and around in her head, faster and faster - growing ever more wild as the words _the King is dead_ flits through the churning maelstrom. It is not true. It is not. He cannot be dead. Not Henry - not her husband…

"Majesty!" Cromwell's voice rises in shock, though she does not understand why. She can barely hear him through the violent buzzing in her ears…

And then nothing.

* * *

"For heaven's sake, stay back, Mr Secretary." The voice is Jane Rochford's. Vaguely Anne opens her eyes to find that she is seated in a chair, her stays loosened, while her feet are raised upon a footstool. Dear God - has she fainted? Why is the Secretary present?

And then it comes back to her.

Henry is dead.

Unable to stop herself, she utters a faint moan, though she is no longer sure whether the sound that escapes her displays grief or confusion. Immediately, a cool cloth is dabbing at her forehead, "Take care, Majesty - you fainted; though the Master Secretary will not say what it was he said that caused you to do so."

Gradually, the chamber comes into focus, and she can see a crowd of people about her, their expressions worried. It appears to be true, then. Mr Cromwell has not imparted his dread news to any other.

In that case, she shall play the game as he does, "Forgive me all, I think my stays were tied too tightly. I am recovering even now, for I can breathe once more. Please return to your business - I shall continue my private discussions with Secretary Cromwell. Lady Rochford, could I trouble you for a small glass of _eau de vie_?"

Still worried, her attendants bow and withdraw, while Jane fetches her a pony-glass of clear spirits flavoured with pear before withdrawing too. Sipping at the liquor, Anne looks back up at the Secretary, "Are you certain of this? Do not forget that to envisage the death of the King is treasonous, Mr Cromwell."

He still looks uncomfortable, "I fear so, Majesty." He cannot blame her for her uncertainty - after all, she must know by now that her position is dangerously precarious. To be overheard speaking of the King's death would set her upon a scaffold - either to be burned or decapitated - and thus she has no wish to do so in front of him. She is not blind to the fact that he has done so to her - and she could have him arrested on the spot.

"God have mercy upon his soul." She whispers, "Who else is aware of this?"

"Naught but you and I - and Ralph Sadleir who knows only the smallest details. I have dispatched the man who brought me the news to new quarters to ensure that he is not punished for his act."

"Your own secretary knows?" Anne asks, her voice low: dangerous.

"Only that his Majesty is dead; not the manner or the circumstances in which it occurred. I have sent him to Hatfield, Majesty. He has a summons for the Princess Elizabeth to return to Court."

Her eyes widen - so that is his plan. To control Elizabeth, and - consequently - control her. While she knows that all of the men at Court would act with equal determination, that it is this base-born commoner who has done so galls her to the extreme.

"Majesty." Cromwell's voice becomes more earnest as he sees her expression change, "I am not bringing the Princess to Court for any purpose other than to restore her to you. She shall become the Queen - but is barely more than a babe in arms and thus cannot truly rule. It is now essential that she is governed by those who have both the interests of the Queen, and the interests of the Realm, at heart."

"Besides," Anne says, with soft spite, "Those who would wish to govern her would be those who would relieve you of your privileges - nay, even your head."

His own eyes narrow, as his temper is provoked, "Do not imagine that they shall retain you for any purpose other than appearance. There shall be a Lord Protector at the head of the council table before the King's remains are laid to rest - and whoever that Protector might be, there shall be no place for either of us. Not for me - and not for you."

"There would be no place for _you_ , no matter whether the Protector be friend to me, or foe." She spits back, "I am the new Queen's mother - and what are you?"

Angered, Cromwell speaks with more honesty than he has since advising the woman before him of her widowhood, "Your single hope of remaining relevant to the life of your daughter."

Anne looks at him, intrigued, "Is that so?" In other circumstances, she would not take his comment seriously; but his expression is unguarded - most unusual for him - and his hands…are they trembling? God above, they are…he is afraid…

He can see her scepticism visibly receding as she begins to understand that he has approached her in all sincerity. Regaining his temper, he steps forth, "Majesty, believe me, I am well aware that our aims and intentions have long diverged - and that I have taken steps to act against you. Whether you are equally aware, I know not - but the circumstances have changed. If we are to survive in the storm that is to follow, then we must do so together. Your uncle shall not appreciate your opinions any more than your late husband did - and I know full well that he had no time for them, or interest in them." He pauses, looks nervous, and then plunges on, "Majesty - you should know. Following his outburst to the Imperial Ambassador upon Lady Day, his Majesty required me to end his marriage to you in favour of - as he put it - another wife. I had undertaken considerable work upon that requirement whereupon, prior to his departure to Wiltshire, his Majesty went on to appoint me to lead a commission of Oyer and Terminer with the intention of investigating acts of treason upon your part. I had just secured a chamber in which to question your women when the news of his Majesty's death was brought to me."

Now her thoughts are of more urgent matters, "Does my uncle know?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "He does not. All upon the Council are aware of our instructions, but not the matter under investigation. Only Mr Rich and I had been informed of the purpose of the commission by the time the news came through. Mr Rich himself does not know of his Majesty's death, for he was not in the room when I was advised of it."

Her eyes still hostile, Anne regards him awhile. It is clear that he is absolutely serious - and equally he is absolutely sincere. Woman she may be - but she is neither blind, nor a fool. Her own father has declared his hatred of her, and that he would abandon her at a stroke. It is a certainty that, were Elizabeth to fall into the hands of her male relatives, she herself would suddenly discover a great need to withdraw from the world and retire to a nunnery.

The Seymours are a spent force now, of course - their entry to the Court was being eased by the blonde charms of the daughter; but there is every chance that they might ally with a stronger force - Suffolk, perhaps? They are of very different stock, yes, but the chance to seize royal power makes strange alliances…

Alliances, it seems, such as herself and the black-clad man standing before her, shifting uncomfortably and causing the links of his chain of office to grate slightly. She cannot act alone - that is true. She must have the aid of one who truly understands the dangerous undertow of politics; but is the man before her the only choice? The son of a Putney brewer?

They were friends once - for he understood her intelligence as other men did not. He could see what they refused to acknowledge. Those shared games of chess - the movements of the pieces an allegorical demonstration of the movements of the pieces on that greater board that is the Court of England. There was no love between them - only a friendly, mutual respect for one another's intellects. Does he still hold that friendship? Perhaps he does…

There shall be factions drawing together as soon as the news breaks. She is well aware of that - and so that deadly dance shall begin, a risk-laden galliard that shall determine which faction controls her daughter.

And thus controls England.

"How long do you think, until the news is broken?"

"If my man was missed, then it cannot be long before Suffolk departs Wiltshire - another day at best. If they are to bring the corpse with them, then they shall be four days at least on the road as they cannot travel at a greater speed than a wagon upon poorly made tracks. They do not know whose man he was - so it may be that they shall remain silent for a few days before commencing a return journey to ensure that there is no accusation of treachery on the part of the Seymours. As soon as Elizabeth is secured, all shall know that we have acted. Thus I have asked Sadleir to keep her secreted away from the Palace; somewhere comfortable within London. The more that our enemies know, the easier it shall be for them to crush us - for of all who shall contest for the future of England over the coming weeks, we are by far the weakest."

"Then we must find more friends. Friends who shall stand with us."

"That shall be difficult, Majesty." Cromwell admits. After all, how many friends shall he have once Norfolk stakes his claim to be the Protector? Who would be willing to defy the highest nobleman in England?

Eyeing the Queen worriedly, Cromwell realises that he cannot think of a single soul.


	7. A Court in Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments and kudos - all are greatly appreciated and I'm delighted that you're enjoying the re-telling of this tale.

Suffolk is pacing back and forth, glancing occasionally back to the trestle, where a pale, fearful physician stands over the horribly damaged corpse and attempts not to vomit. Whether it is out of revulsion at what he sees, or the knowledge that he is being asked to verify the death of the King of England, however, it is not possible to tell.

He should be thinking; he should be planning what he shall do now. If the fled man has reported to Norfolk, then he might as well never return to Court, as the Norfolk faction has no place for him. Besides, he would not wish to be at a Court ruled by the Boleyns - not by that woman…

No. Not that woman - Norfolk would never share power. At best, Wiltshire might be thrown some few crumbs to placate him and keep him loyal - but she shall be set aside: a mere ornament to decorate the Court and aid the pretence that all shall be well in the years to come.

The thought wisps away again as he turns back to the trestle. His King…his friend - snatched away from this world in the merest instant. While all who breathe are aware of the fragility of life, and the speed at which death can strike, he is still fighting with himself to accept the evidence of his eyes. He had pretended to himself that Henry would live forever…is that not what Kings are meant to do?

Seymour is standing in the corner, watching with dread-filled eyes - still struck with terror that he shall be blamed for this calamity, for the King has died while a guest under his roof. The girl is still upstairs, but the occasional sound of running feet ascending and descending the stairs suggests that all fear for her wellbeing. Perhaps she grieves for the King - or perhaps for the loss of the glittering future he might have granted her. Who knows?

He is likely doing the girl a disservice, thinking as he does - but he can also see the elder son standing at the hall door, his eyes narrowed and his thoughts quick. There is one who neither fears nor grieves - but instead calculates what hope there might be for the grand career as a Courtier that all but vanished away in the instant that the King fell from his horse. The Seymours have no connections at the Palace other than the daughter's appointment to the Queen's household - even he is only at Wulfhall because he accompanied his friend - and thus no means to come back there again. Even the Master Secretary would have associated with them only because they had secured the favour of the King - that is a man who does all that is required of him. Much as he dislikes the base-born commoner, Suffolk recognises Cromwell's talent: whoever eventually stands as Lord Protector would be a fool to disregard him.

His eyes stray back to the body, and his thoughts scatter once more. The Physician has retreated; and, seeing that Suffolk is glancing at him, comes across, "I am not sure what you require of me, your Grace." He admits, his voice a soft burr of the local accent tinged with the more refined tones of one of the University towns, "From what I have seen, it is clear to me that all occurred as was described. His Majesty appears to have sustained a large number of broken bones - but the destruction of his skull is decisive. There is no sign of a weapon used - merely injuries that are consistent with a fall."

Suffolk nods, tiredly. An examination of the horse has equally shown that the only use of a weapon was the gunshot that ended its agonised thrashings. There is no means by which any could hope to claim that the King's death was anything other than an accident, "Thank you, doctor."

"I shall make a written statement for you if you require it." Despite his offer, Suffolk can see that the man would very much rather not have to do so - but asks for form's sake.

"Forgive me - but I think it wise for all of us if you do." He says, "I shall ensure that the King's own physicians are given sight of the remains to verify your report."

With at least that minor assurance, the physician nods, and retreats in search of paper and ink.

"What is the doctor's assessment?" Seymour asks, fretfully.

"That all of the injuries upon the remains are consistent with our explanation of what occurred, Sir John." Suffolk answers, "There shall be no disputing the fact that it was mischance. I can vouch for the fact that you warned his Majesty not to ride his horse directly down the slope - but that he dismissed the warning to remain upon the path."

"Thank you, your Grace." He seems to almost visibly exude a sigh of relief.

"I shall make arrangements for the remains to be conveyed back to London." Suffolk advises quietly, "I think it wise at present that you and your family remain away from Court." There is little point in sugaring that poison; the death of the King has taken away their surest means of gaining ascendancy - the elder son had not had any opportunity to prove himself of use, and there shall be no honours tied to the skirts of their daughter now that the one who would have granted them is gone. If Edward Seymour still remains ambitious to seek his fortune at Court, then he shall have to do so on his own merits - but without a means of gaining entry at the outset, that is all but impossible. Who would have any interest in sponsoring the career of one whose presence was largely thanks to his sister's prospects of becoming a royal mistress? No, he shall have to enter Parliament now, and hope that he can forge friendships from there.

Seymour's face falls at the tidings, but he nods in agreement and calls a steward to summon the Captain of the King's Guard back so that they can form up the royal party. The corpse shall be washed, and coffined as best they can achieve in a dusty wicker basket that once held longbows. A proper coffin would take far too long to build - they must leave as soon as they can if he is to hold any hope of retaining the initiative once the news begins to spread. Concealed in a covered cart, none shall know that their King is dead. The worst of it is that they shall have to leave on the morrow, and rest overnight at least twice on the way. He cannot get back to court for four days at the very least - and with at least one person laying the foundations for their own future, he shall be utterly helpless should matters begin to spiral out of control.

* * *

Smeaton is playing his lute again, as the ladies participate in a quiet pavane. The Queen sits nearby, watching the proceedings in the light of a multitude of candles. Should she be grieving? Perhaps she should - but somehow, she cannot. Her love for her King had always been at the centre of her royal life, and even that moment when he had all but cursed her in the light of her grievous loss of their son, it had not dimmed - she knew it, told herself of it every day. But now…why is it that she feels no anguish, but instead relief?

Oh, the tears shall come - she knows herself well enough to appreciate that; but her thoughts circle around the strange discovery that her as-yet unrevealed widowhood has lifted a great weight from her shoulders. The news that Mr Cromwell brought her of the work that her husband had laid upon him is less of a surprise than she anticipated, for she had not been blind to the implications of his withdrawal from her. She is now safe from that - but again, she is not fool enough to believe herself to be safe from all dangers.

Her eyes stray down to the nearby chessboard, the pieces set for a new game. While the games she had played with that tall, inscrutable man had not been a regular pastime, even when they had shared something akin to a friendship, they had taught her that he is both a true power-house of intellect and a masterful strategist; and any who would seek to oust her and control her daughter would be a fool to disregard him. As the foremost of those is her Uncle Thomas Howard, however, such a likelihood rises to a certainty. The Duke's deeply held snobbery would demand that he remove the base-born upstart at the first opportunity. Just as his refusal to share power with any would ensure her dispatch to obscurity. Elizabeth deserves better than that.

Elizabeth…

That poor child - so very young. Few children have gained a throne at so tender an age - only the sixth Henry was younger, crowned while still a babe in arms; while the boy Richard, second of that name, had been a mere ten years of age when the crown was set upon his head. Neither prospered as a King, for both lost their thrones and died in their prison cells, and it cannot be said with any certainty that Henry was even sane, while Richard turned upon his nobles before they deposed him, and some wonder if even his mind was whole by the end of his reign. What if that was thanks to the young ages at which crowns were set upon their heads? Worse - Elizabeth is a girl, and England has never had a Queen Regnant. The last woman who was heir to the throne by right of blood was thrust aside by a cousin who had previously sworn to support her - and her attempt to regain her stolen crown led to nothing but war.

No - that shall not happen again, for there are no men in the immediate line of succession who can gainsay her daughter's claim. This time there shall be no choice. It shall be a female who wears the crown, for there is no man of sufficient blood to prevent it. Her daughter…her Elizabeth.

She looks up; none pay heed to her brooding, for she has done little else since Lady Day and they no longer consider it to be out of character. God above, why is Smeaton dressed so? Dripping with jewels, adorned with velvets and silks that are a gross defiance of the sumptuary laws, it is as though he has hurled himself into her closet, thrashed about wildly, and emerged draped in whatever garments had attached to him. Is he enamoured of someone? Attempting to gain the affection of one of her ladies? If that is so, then he is a fool - none of them would have a man so low-born. Even Cromwell - for all his ambition - does not think himself so privileged; or, if he does, he is not stupid enough to show it.

One of her ushers approaches, and sets a small letter into her hand, sealed with candlewax pressed by a thumbprint. No signet, then. Breaking it open, she recognises Cromwell's scholarly - but also mildly ungoverned - hand:

_Majesty,_

_I have set a man to watch the London road from the west, who shall flee back to Court as soon as he sights the return of the King's remains from Wiltshire, thus we shall be prepared. I anticipate that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth shall reach Greenwich tomorrow, post meridian, and I have secured a fair manor in the park of Eltham for her to lodge with her ladies: thus none shall know she is within reach but you._

_As soon as the news of the death is reported, I shall feign activity akin to that which was undertaken in January, but the matter of the Protector shall remain unspoken until you have decided who shall be granted that burden. I am already at work upon the appropriate documents to secure her Majesty's succession, and a proclamation shall be ready for your perusal upon the morrow._

_I have considered the requirement for additional legal expertise upon these matters, and so I shall secure the assistance of the Solicitor General as soon as the grave tidings have been announced - though I shall not bring him into our confidence at this time - as, for all his talent, he is not a man to be trusted._

_I request a private audience with you - both to present the proclamation and to discuss how the news of the King's passing shall be met. In spite of his demands, there has been no investigation into your conduct, and thus there shall be no disputing that you - as his widow - are the dowager Queen, and your daughter has acceded to the throne of England._

_C_

Folding the letter closed again, she sits back and continues to watch the dance. There is Norris - hand in hand with Madge, thank God, and a number of her other retainers, while Jane Rochford stands to the side and watches as keenly as her Queen. If the Secretary has no confidant, she is more fortunate - for the unloved sister-in-law has proven to be a remarkably trustworthy ally in the face of their shared troubles with the male Boleyns. He may have no friend to trust - but it seems that she has.

The pavane draws to a close, and the dancers exchange bows and curtseys. Thank God it is late and almost time to change the candles - she has much to think upon, and needs to be alone, "Thank you all. Forgive me, but I am most tired and I shall retire. Good night to you all."

They all heed the dismissal, and soon only her closest ladies remain, in order to assist her out of her heavy gown. Someone has fetched a wine cordial and some wafers, while Madge Horsman sets out tooth cloths, picks and aqua vitae. It is the work of moments to drop Cromwell's letter in the fire, and none see it fall into those welcoming flames.

Safely abed, she rests amongst the pillows as her ladies withdraw to the Privy Chamber, and Lady Rochford turns down the covers on the truckle at the end of the Queen's bed.

"I have an errand for you, Lady Rochford."

"Yes Majesty?"

"Please attend the Master Secretary - it is likely that if he is not in his chambers, he shall be in the offices - and advise him that I shall grant him a private audience on the morrow at ten of the clock. I shall require your presence - but no others."

"Yes Majesty." She bobs a curtsey, and departs. On the other side of the curtain, she can hear a few words of gossip - mostly relating to speculation that Lady Rochford has gone to meet a lover - until Madge Shelton comes in to sit with her while Jane is absent.

They remain ignorant: good. Tomorrow, she shall begin her planning in earnest.

* * *

Sadleir arrives in the breaking light of dawn, making his way to Cromwell's chambers to find him in the midst of breaking his fast. God - does the man ever sleep?

"Is it done?" is his first question, the cup of small ale paused halfway to his lips.

Sadleir nods, a little breathlessly, "Our guest is lodged in the manor you secured, Mr Secretary. The staff there accepted the document without hesitation and assume it is the will of the King, though the chief of her ladies objected when first we arrived at her residence with it. Those who remain believe her to have travelled to Hampton Court, for I claimed that the Court was there."

"And the other Lady?" he does not mention Mary by name - God knows who is listening.

"Pleased to be left behind in a pretence of what she once was - though she expressed sadness that our guest was departing from her. Despite all, she has a great deal of affection for her. She has assumed that her charge is merely changing residence, and she is being left behind."

Cromwell's eyebrow raises; regardless of the indignities and humiliations heaped upon that poor young woman, she has never blamed the babe who supplanted her. A remarkable degree of kindness in the face of gross injustice.

"Good. When all is known, her thoughts may change - but at present she remains ignorant: best that it remain that way for now."

"Yes, Mr Secretary. What is left to be done?"

"I have a few additional tasks to undertake, which I shall do this morning. I suspect it shall not be much longer before the tidings break - a day at the most - so it is my intention that we are as prepared as we can be for what shall undoubtedly follow."

"If you require fair copies, I shall secure a private chamber to write them."

He smiles at his loyal secretary, a man he has always been able to trust absolutely - unlike anyone else in this damned ants' nest, "Thank you Ralph."

Returning to the slices of cold beef and bread upon his plate, Cromwell resumes his thoughts of how to proceed once news of the King's death arrives for the rest of the Court. He cannot believe that Suffolk is not returning with the King's remains by now. It has been two days since the news reached him; thus three days since the fall. If they do not arrive by dusk upon the morrow, then it is unlikely to be more than two additional days at the most - even with the difficulty of making a journey of that nature, the Duke cannot keep the news to himself for too long, otherwise he shall have a great number of difficult questions to answer.

At least he can assure Queen Anne that her daughter is safely arrived from Hatfield, and is now appropriately ensconced at Eltham in quarters suitable for her grand estate. Mary remains ignorant that her last opportunity to grasp back her legitimacy has vanished away, and thus is safe from any who might attempt to advance her cause. He shall have to consider her future eventually, but at present the needs of the younger daughter supersede those of the elder.

The proclamation is at his elbow, hidden in a leather portfolio alongside a draft bill for Parliament to declare their loyalty to her as Queen, and also to confirm who shall be Lord Protector. Whether he is content with the idea or not, there has never been a crowned minor who has not been overseen by one of the great Lords - though, for choice, he would do without one, for there is not one man at the Council table who would permit him to remain, or who would grant the new Queen's mother her rights as Regent. After all, Matilda discovered to her cost that her right of blood as the younger sister of William Adelin was worth nothing in the face of Stephen of Blois; England lost more than an heir when _La Blanche-Nef_ sank: she lost peace and prosperity in the carnage as the two heirs fought for supremacy and the Crown.

He has no intention of allowing such a disaster again - not after all that he has been doing to attempt to drag his country from its old ways in order to share the light of the renaissance that is blossoming like a sunrise across their neighbours over the channel. The resistance of those who stand to lose the long-held rights of possession over the land would be impossible to overcome if one of their number took charge of the council, and - consequently - the realm.

Regardless of what shall follow, he knows that he must find allies - and quickly. As the premier peer of the realm, Norfolk shall expect to be Protector - indeed, he shall demand it - and the laws that he must construct to protect Elizabeth's rights as Queen must be as tightly written as possible. That means he must make careful overtures to Sir Richard Rich. While he is not the finest lawyer ever to walk the corridors of the Inns of Court, he is highly organised and has a peerless knowledge of legal precedent: there are few who can interpret statutes as he can.

If only he could be _trusted_. For all his brilliance, Rich is hideously unscrupulous, and easily tempted with bribes. Furthermore, he has little courage, moral or physical, and would betray anyone in return for either advancement or wealth - and most certainly in order to save his own skin if necessary. Would he be welcoming a talented ally into their circle, or a treacherous serpent?

No - he cannot risk it. Best to wait until the news has broken and turn to him in his capacity as Solicitor General. Once all is settled, and he cannot throw all into confusion in return for a bag of gold, he can enter service to the Queen Elizabeth.

* * *

The ladies are concentrating on their embroidery again, turning out exquisite pieces of needlework illustrating all manner of subjects - allegories, myths and legends. They talk quietly amongst themselves, accompanied by the soft ticking of the clock upon the great mantel of the fireplace above their heads.

Anne shudders; today, had circumstances not changed, they would have been escorted - one by one - into a windowless chamber where the King's Secretary and other men of the Council would have questioned them in hopes of assembling gossip and hearsay that could be used against her - and all that has saved her is the death of the man who demanded that they do it.

The knowledge still remains unreal to her, and she thinks of Henry's actions with a cold detachment that belies all the love that she believes she ever held for him. Why is she still not grieving? Why does it all sound merely like words spoken to her about a mere stranger to whom she had no connection? Surely there should be tears - but still her eyes remain stubbornly dry.

She looks up as the tiny bells built into the clock strike the hour of ten. Sure enough, no sooner has that last tinkling sound died away than one of her ushers enters, "Majesty, the King's Secretary is without. He seeks a private audience."

Anne raises her head, "Thank you Michael. Show him in - Ladies, if you could excuse us, please? The weather without is most pleasant, I suggest you take the air for an hour or two. I shall call you back for the midday meal."

They exchange glances, surprised at her request - for this is becoming rather a regular occurrence. Disinterested in their curiosity, she waits for them to depart, taking her two spaniels with them, before having Cromwell shown in. Shortly afterwards, Lady Rochford returns, having dropped back from the group and made her way back to the Privy Chamber.

Cromwell does not object to her presence - instead setting out the papers that he has prepared, "This is the proclamation of the Queen Elizabeth, Majesty. As she is too young to speak for herself, it shall be for you to proclaim her Queen, as the Queen Dowager."

"Dowager…" she whispers. Jesu - how old that makes her sound…a woman of her years, wedded and widowed. How long has she been alive now? Three tens of years or more - but it seems like a hundred lifetimes. Was that not what they called Queen Katherine? _Dowager_? But she was Arthur's widow, no more than a princess of Wales. Rendered such by the death of her husband.

Husband.

Her husband…

 _Henry_ …

In that instant, the understanding of her loss moves the short distance from her head to her heart - but her thoughts seem to leap a thousand miles into the depths. He is gone - her Henry; lost to her for the rest of her days.

Cromwell bows his head and closes her eyes as her face falls, and, at last, so do the tears. Tears that she could not shed until that moment. But there is more than mere salt water - now there are wails of anguish, cries of grief.

Her face buried in Lady Rochford's gown, Anne screams out her pain, "Oh God have mercy! My poor husband! My Henry! No, it cannot be! It cannot - I cannot bear it!"

He bites his lip to keep himself under control, for the intensity of her pain reflects back upon him, and he finds that he, too, grieves. Grieves for a man whose love could be gained and lost upon the turn of a die, driven by his whims and fancies - but always powerful in its intensity. Perhaps, had she conceived again, she might have regained it, Seymour girl or no - but that is no longer possible. There were times when he, too, hated Henry - and loved him. But now a new age is upon them, and he must steer the course of their too-small ship into that uncertain dawn.

After a time, the Queen's tears dry, and she lifts her head again, "Forgive me, Master Secretary."

"There is nothing to forgive Majesty." He bows deeply. God, yes - in spite of all, she loved him; or, if she did not, she had utterly convinced herself otherwise and, thus, the principle holds.

Her control regained, Anne's hand is steady as she lifts the paper that holds her daughter's proclamation, "We shall have to move quickly. As soon as the news is received, we must ensure that Elizabeth is proclaimed immediately - and work must commence upon confirming that there is no means to remove her legitimacy."

"A draft bill for that very purpose is also within the wallet, Majesty."

She eyes him, her puffy eyes sharpening, "Of course there is."

"There is also a report upon the requirements to prepare for her Majesty's coronation - though much is dependent upon who shall lead the regency council."

"And who shall be Lord Protector." She adds, darkly. They both know that their futures are dependent upon the identity of that august individual. Frowning slightly, she looks up at him, "And if there were none?"

He stares at her, "Majesty?"

"Why should there be a Lord Protector, when there is a Regent who can govern in the Queen's stead?"

Cromwell opens his mouth to refute her, then shuts it again, after a few more attempts to do so, she interrupts him, "Please do not do that, Mr Cromwell. You resemble a landed carp."

"If we are to do that, Majesty," He says, after a considerable pause, "the legal basis must be absolute. Even if there are rivals to claim the Protectorship, they shall unite as one to deny you such a role."

"Can they deny that the Crown of St Edward was set upon my head?" she counters, "I am a Queen - a _crowned_ Queen - and thus they cannot gainsay me. Woman or no."

Cromwell turns the thought over in his mind. It was not an idea that had occurred to him - after all, even though there is no Salic law in England and other realms across Europe have prospered under the care of a female regent where no man could do so in their stead; nonetheless, no woman can rule: all Englishman believe it - even he. But now, Queen Anne is making that exact suggestion - and she has every right to do so. The King set that crown upon her head with his own hands - and she was anointed with holy oil just as he had been. In the eyes of God, she is Queen - and who would defy God to remove her?

It is as though he is seeing her in an entirely new light; her intelligence has always been obvious to him, but this? To defy all convention and claim the protectorship for herself? At first thought, it seems ludicrous - but upon second thought…

Immediately, he is burrowing through his papers in search of a fresh sheet - but must instead content himself with the back of the draft proclamation, "Lady Rochford, might I trouble you for quill and ink?"

Writing implements secured, he bends over the paper and begins to scribble, cross out and scribble again until he rises, slightly stiffly, "There is nothing in law to prevent you doing so, Majesty; and - as you have said - you are a Queen Regnant in the eyes of both God and the King's law. I have drafted an additional paragraph to add to her Majesty's proclamation that shall name you as Regent and Protector of the Realm. Our primary concern thus being the man that we appoint as head of the Regency Council."

"Not you, Mr Cromwell?" Anne asks archly.

"God no, Majesty." Cromwell shakes his head, vigorously, "Much as it would - I admit - inflate my pride, it would serve us both most badly. The Regency Council must be led by one of your Lords. If there be any reward for me, it shall be in receiving a continued appointment in your service. This shall be hard enough to achieve without rumours that I have won preferment through…inappropriate means."

"Delicately put, Master Secretary." She approves, smirking a little, "Though I have no doubt that a grander appointment shall not be refused."

He reddens slightly.

"What is your recommendation upon receipt of the news from Wiltshire?" she asks, enjoying his embarrassment, but keen to move on.

"That you play the part of a grieving wife, give all pretence of submission to those who bring you the news, and bide your time until the moment of proclamation." He says, "I suspect that you already intend to do so - but that is my suggestion."

She nods, approvingly. The game that they must play is a dangerous one, and it would not do for them to be approaching their strategy from different directions. He is right that his advice mirrors her intention.

"And what shall you do?"

"I shall attempt to find allies amongst the men of the Council - though I fear that I shall have little success. The only man that I trust is Ralph Sadleir; while I appreciate the talents of my colleagues, I am not fool enough to trust _them_."

"Then we shall do what we can with what we have." Anne says, firmly, "I at least have my status as an anointed Queen answerable only to God, for my husband is no longer alive. If our position is firmly entrenched, then those who see profit in doing so shall flock to us - and we shall ensure that they are sufficiently rewarded not to be tempted by those who would depose us."

Her words suggest assurance in her plan, but her expression does not. Their position is precarious to say the least - but until the news arrives, there is nothing more that they can do.

* * *

The covered wagon rattles and rumbles behind him as Suffolk crests the hill overlooking the park of Placentia, and he pauses for a moment. The men who accompanied the King to Wiltshire are formed up behind him, but there is no honour guard for their improvised hearse: he has no wish to suggest that its contents are valuable. Not when there is such a secret to be kept.

But is it still a secret? That is the real quandary that faces him. Someone in his party reported to another man than he - and he does not know who. It is inevitable that a man riding alone could make much faster progress than a wagon, particularly if they are able to change horses regularly and are reckless enough to ride through the night; and who would not be in such circumstances as this? Given the number of ambitious Lords at the council table, it could be any of them - but he would not put it past Norfolk to have been responsible. If that is the case, then he shall arrive at the Palace to be accused of leading the King to his death - and his next destination shall be a barge, and then the Tower. It is highly unlikely that England's first Peer would have sat upon his hands in the near-week that has passed since the accident occurred.

Suffolk is many things - he is not blind to his faults - but he is no coward. Squaring his shoulders, he urges his horse forward with a click of his tongue and a light press of his heels to the ribs. As he approaches, he knows that it shall be clear to all that he has returned alone - though he suspects that most shall assume that the King has remained behind awhile with his new poppet prior to the entire family being granted quarters at the Palace as their chit of a daughter supplants the disgraced Boleyn paike. Insipid though she appears, they would be pleased to see the back of the woman who supplanted the true Queen of England, and Jane set in her place - upon a legitimately vacant throne. Except for that one, awkward reality in the cart behind him...

"James." He summons one of his more trusted escorts.

"Your Grace?"

"Ride ahead. Seek out Archbishop Cranmer - if he is present at Court." Of all the men to whom he must break this news, Cranmer seems most appropriate - for form's sake, at least. Ardent reformer he may be - but he is the primate of the Realm, and it seems appropriate for him to announce the grave tidings without setting too many rumours flying, "Ensure that he is awaiting us when we arrive. I shall wait here for a half-hour, and then continue on. If Cranmer is not present, send Reverend Rawson."

"Yes, your Grace." The man claps his heels to his horse's flanks, and hastens on ahead.

They are too far away to hear the palace bells, so Suffolk is obliged to guess at the length of time that he must wait. Eventually, submitting to his impatience, he commences a journey that shall change life in the Court of the King forever.

Cranmer is, fortunately, at Court - though he seems to have brought Rawson with him, too. That is helpful - the Archbishop and the King's personal Chaplain together to view the corpse of their Sovereign. Fortunately, they have been discreet - and there are no other witnesses to the gathering in the mews.

"Tell me." Is Cranmer's first statement. He is no fool - he knows he would not have been summoned without good reason.

"An accident, your Grace." Suffolk answers, quietly, "He was thrown from his horse while riding recklessly down a steep bank. The animal set its hoof in a rabbit hole and was pitched forward - he was crushed beneath it, and stove in his head upon a rock as they rolled to the foot of the hill."

"Was a physician summoned?"

"Yes - but only to report that the death was misadventure. There was nothing that could have been done."

"A priest?"

"I believe the family chaplain spoke over him - but there was no means to perform Viaticum - he was already gone."

"Arrange for the remains to be housed in one of the wine cellars - they already begin to give off bad odours - I shall attend to him once we have summoned the Council and announced the news to them. First, however, I must advise the Queen."

Suffolk stiffens, "It is important that the Council know first - for they must set plans in place for the succession." Somehow, the thought of that woman knowing before the Councillors do repulses him. She is of no importance to the dead man - why should she know that he is gone? How long before she starts to celebrate with one of her lovers?

Angry with himself for his sudden flash of spite, he softens his tone, "Is it not better that the Council advise her Majesty of her loss - and present her with the plans for the future of the Realm?"

His expression uncomfortable, Cranmer pauses for a moment, but relents, "As you wish, your Grace. I shall see to the summons of the councillors."

Leaving the Archbishop to his work, Suffolk and the Chaplain commence the unpleasant duty of transferring the remains of the King from the mews to a cellar, in at least the vaguest hope of preventing the corpse within the bow-basket from stinking even more than it already does. One fortunate soul has been dispatched to the kitchens to seek bunches of the most fragrant herbs they have, while the rest have fetched a trestle, and are even now gingerly attempting to transfer the foul remains with as little contact as possible through the open weave of the wicker work.

"I shall escort him, your Grace." Rawson advises, "You must attend the Council meeting. Even now a steward is approaching, I think."

Suffolk turns to see his escort, and sighs: now it shall begin.

* * *

The men at the Council table are tense - for a summons by the Archbishop suggests that the news they must hear is grim. From their expressions, Suffolk is sure that they have already begun to guess the reason for it. All but one; for that corvid Cromwell is as impassive as ever. God, if Norfolk is the man who knows the truth already, he is a consummate actor in his concealment of that knowledge - for his face is as bemused as everyone else's.

"Gentlemen, are all present?" Cranmer asks, solemnly.

"I believe so." Norfolk advises, curtly, "Speak."

"Then it is, I fear, my most grievous duty to inform you that, during his progress to Wiltshire, the King was thrown from his horse and crushed beneath it. His Majesty, our Liege Lord and Sovereign, King Henry the Eighth of England, France and Ireland, has been called home to God. _Te, Domine, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, supplices deprecamur pro anima famuli tui Henrici Regis, quem de hoc sæculo ad te venire iussisti; ut ei digneris dare locum refrigerii, lucis et Liceat ei portas mortis sine offensione transire et in mansionibus sanctorum et in luce sancta permaneat, quam olim Nullam eius anima sustineat læsionem, sed, cum magnus dies ille resurrectionis et remunerationis advenerit, resuscitare eum, Domine, una cum sanctis et electis digneris; dimittas ei omnia delicta atque peccata, tecumque immortalitatis vitam et regnum consequatur æternum. Amen._ "

Shocked, all around him are frozen for a moment, before they collectively mumble 'Amen' and cross themselves. His expression grave, Cranmer bows to them all, "Forgive me, Gentlemen - I must see to the last sacraments for his Majesty. I look to you to consider the safe future of the Realm." There is no disguising his relief to be away from the discussions to come.

He does not ask consent - nor does he even speak of his intentions. Instead, Norfolk calmly rises and moves to the head of the table. None feel safe to challenge his presumption: he is the foremost Peer of the Realm, and thus would assume such authority as a matter of right. From his seat, Suffolk sighs inwardly: yes, it must have been Norfolk's man in the party who departed. There is no shock upon his face now - only a sense of rightness. A sense that all that shall follow is in his hands, and his alone. That expression of satisfaction seems to deepen, as he eyes the men before him narrowly, before turning to Cromwell, "Thank you, Master Secretary. With the passing of his Majesty, your service to him is at an end. Therefore you are free to depart."

In spite of their collective dislike of the commoner at their table, the various councillors exchange startled glances. Cromwell is, of course, the only man present who has no noble rank - even lowly Rich is a Knight Batchelor - and thus Norfolk can dismiss him without ruffling the feathers of any of the Councillors who might band together to challenge his claim to supremacy.

Remarkably, Cromwell shows no shock, and raises no protest at his dismissal, but instead calmly rises to his feet, bows with great dignity, "Thank you, your Grace."

Without another word, he departs.

Norfolk might look smug, but Suffolk is viewing the exchange in an entirely different light. The manner in which Cromwell so calmly accepted what should have been a humiliation, and withdrew with so little emotion, suggests that this has not come as a surprise; but then, it wouldn't have, would it? Norfolk's first act would have been to remove the hated base-born interloper, but nonetheless, there is no reddening of the humiliated Secretary's face - no sense of resentment in his movements. Suffolk chills inside - it is not Norfolk who knew of the death in advance. It is Cromwell.

The Secretary is one of the most intelligent men in the Palace - and a brilliant strategist. If he is to keep his head, he has already begun to set his plans in motion - and a man as pragmatic as he would certainly abandon past enmities.

If Cromwell knows, then so does the Queen.


	8. Plans and Conspiracies

The smirk is still rather unbecomingly obvious upon Norfolk's face as he leads a small delegation of Councillors to the Queen's Privy Chamber. Wiltshire is with him, of course, as is Rochford - for they are his relatives and he has no alternative but to include them as Councillors under his Protectorship - but also Lord High Chancellor Audley, who can be guaranteed to do what they want of him in the name of subservience to the throne, and that vile rat Richard Rich - for they need a legal mind that is not Cromwell's.

She is seated with her chaplain in the midst of an apparent study of the scriptures when they are shown in, and she rises with all the dignity at her command, "My Lords - why have you come?"

Norfolk bows, as do his companions, though his deference is light at best, "Majesty, forgive our intrusion. I regret that I bring you grave tidings pertaining to his Majesty the King."

Anne seems to become very still. Even he can see it, "Tell on, your Grace."

"I fear that, two days past, his Majesty was out hunting with his hosts when his horse was brought down accidentally. As a consequence of the fall, he was mortally injured - and did not recover his senses before he was called to God. If you wish it, I shall summon your ladies to attend to you?"

He is not sure what she shall do now. Shall she fall down weeping? Refuse to believe him? Fall into hysterics?

To his surprise, she does none of those things, but instead remains calm, "Thank you, your Grace, for imparting such grave tidings so kindly. I should be grateful if you could excuse me - I require privacy: to pray for my late Husband's poor soul and to exchange my gown for mourning garments. When I have done so, I shall call you again." She indicates her Chaplain, who is standing nearby and looking as though the world has come to an end.

Bemused, Norfolk bows again, for he has no alternative other than to comply. Regardless of his supremacy, she is - despite all - a crowned Queen, and thus he must obey her command. For now, at least. He backs away deferentially, as do his companions, and departs.

Anne knows better than to assume he has truly gone, and calmly goes down on her knees as her frightened Chaplain fumbles through his books for the appropriate prayers. They remain in their contemplations for nearly ten minutes, before she feels safe to rise, then turns as the curtains from her bedchamber part, and Cromwell emerges into the privy chamber, "Norfolk has moved quickly." She observes.

"Perhaps." Cromwell agrees, "But not quickly enough - for we have what he lacks; a proclamation, and a Princess to be proclaimed. He shall shortly dispatch a party of men to Hatfield to summon the new Queen to Court - and may even go to her himself - but there shall be naught but the Lady Mary."

"And what if he ties himself to _her_?" Anne asks, worriedly.

"At this time, that would be unlikely." Cromwell muses, pacing back and forth, "While she female, she is of age, and is - as you know - headstrong and proud. She would never permit him to rule in her stead, and thus his protectorship would be difficult, and short. No - if he can have the control of a child barely walking, then he shall have ten years or more to set himself up in law as the ruler of the Realm - and ensure his supremacy even beyond the Queen's coming of age. For all his pride and nobility, he is acquisitive and jealous; and his greatest wish now shall be to grasp the power that shall lie behind a throne upon which sits a mere babe."

"Woe be unto the realm whose king is a child." Anne mutters, softly, then turns to him, "Audley was with him - and Rich."

He nods, "I was watching through a small hole in the curtain. Audley's loyalty does not surprise me - his interests have always lain in the lap of the most powerful man in the realm. Rich, again, is looking to benefit. I would do no differently were I in his position. They need a lawyer - and he is a lawyer. His advantage over me is his status as a Knight and a Gentleman - though his presence in Parliament shall also be useful for whomever gains his loyalty when all is done."

She snorts, "If either man thinks that they shall gain from this, then they are mistaken. My father has worked hard to grasp what he has, harder even than my uncle, and the two of them shall share it with none. Neither man shall last long should they outlive their usefulness."

Cromwell shakes his head, "Audley shall not do so - his understanding of the operations of government is unparalleled by any other than mine; they shall need him in order to hold all together. Rich, on the other hand, is but one lawyer amongst many. He is talented, but his reputation for untrustworthiness is a hurdle that I do not think him able to overcome. Should they find a man of whom they can be more certain, he shall be discarded."

"Could _you_ trust him?" Anne asks.

"Unless his acts bring him to a deadly precipice, and drive him to think differently - no."

She turns to him, "Understand me well, Mr Cromwell. I work with you out of pragmatism - and for the sake of my daughter; for I know that, unless I do so, I shall be destroyed. Do not mistake that for trust: if you play me false, I shall see to it that my fall is your fall."

He eyes her gravely. Does she think he is ignorant of her view of him? Perhaps she recognises that he, too, has turned to her as an ally to preserve his own life. Even were he to flee the Court now, Norfolk would have him hunted down and attainted - a base-born man who has risen so high? He is an affront to all that the Duke believes. An example would be made of him to ensure that no-one ever presumes that they can stand above a nobleman again.

"Majesty. I have already reached the precipice of which I have spoken. If I am to survive - as are you - then I, too, shall make an alliance with one who despises me. The new Queen of England must be served well by a council that recognises her right to rule, and teaches her to do so. If we do not work together, then she shall see none of that - but instead shall be taught that she is naught but a figure in a dress who glitters in jewels, but wields nothing."

"Then we shall work together." Anne says, quietly, "For I think as you do."

* * *

Wiltshire paces back and forth in Norfolk's apartments, his expression dangerous, "How long does she need to say bloody prayers? If all is not to collapse, we must act now!"

Sitting with paper and quill at the ready, Rich watches the noblemen as they share dark sentiments over the Queen's apparent intransigence. To his mind, they have been away from her presence for less than a half-hour - it shall take far, far longer than that to establish the legal frame upon which the new reign shall hang.

"Gentlemen," Thomas Audley is also seated, and looking nervous, "her Majesty has received grievous news - she must have time to mourn, and to prepare herself for the reign to come. If we cannot be in her presence, we can at least lay the foundations for the Protectorship until Queen Elizabeth comes of age."

So it is not to be Queen Mary, then, Rich muses to himself. Given that he is Elizabeth's great-uncle, the opportunity for Norfolk to control the child would be far too tempting. No - regardless of whether England would want the child of their beloved Katherine to resume her place in the succession, Thomas Howard shall want to hold the reins of power - and a child to whom he is related is certain to ensure that he can do so. That the Duke shall be Protector is inevitable; no one can challenge him, as he is the foremost Peer of England, and the most highly ranked man anywhere near the throne. Who would eschew an opportunity such as that?

"At least that low-born bastard Cromwell is gone." Rochford advises, cheerfully, and in complete ignorance of any apparent former friendship, "Now those who are fit to rule the Kingdom are free to do so again."

Norfolk nods, approvingly, while Wiltshire smirks. Watching them, Rich allows himself a sense of relief that he has found himself secure in the favour of the new government of England. They shall need his legal skill, and his control of Parliament, to keep themselves afloat against those who might attempt to topple them - though who could do it, he does not know. Queen Anne? God, no. The woman is as good as banished. She shall remain awhile for the sake of appearances, before declaring that she wishes to retire from court to mourn her late husband. Then it shall be farewell, and good riddance to the whore.

With little else to do, he sets down a list of legal documents that he must draft. The proclamation, of course - setting out Elizabeth as Queen and Norfolk as protector. A bill to secure her coronation, the creation of a regency council, and a formal legal basis upon which Norfolk shall stand - particularly once the girl comes of age and starts to demand power for herself. No - that shall never be allowed to happen. The Duke would rather crawl across broken glass than permit _that._

Regarding his list with a critical eye, Rich fights with himself not to grin widely. How long has he wanted prominence such as this? Always in the shadow of that Putney nobody, chasing along behind for the crumbs of the King's favour while Cromwell enjoyed the feast. No longer, it seems. Now he is at last to receive the recognition of his talents that he has craved from the moment Audley introduced him to the Court. The loss of the King might be a calamity for some - but for him, it is a golden opportunity that he intends to grasp.

There is a knock upon the door, and a nervous steward in the Queen's livery enters at Norfolk's barked order, "Forgive me, your Grace; her Majesty begs your indulgence - she has been overcome with emotion, and requires additional time to recover herself. She asks that you attend her after the midday meal."

For a moment, Rich wonders if the Duke intends to strike the messenger; and it looks to all as though he is contemplating doing exactly that. Instead, he restrains himself, and nods, "Very well. I shall present myself to her at one hour after noon."

"Yes, your Grace." Relieved not to have been slapped, the youth retreats.

"Rochford," Norfolk turns suddenly, "Take a detachment of the palace guard - under the authority of the Lord Protector - fetch the Princess Elizabeth from Hatfield. If we are to proceed, she must be secure, and under our protection."

_Or control_. Rich thinks to himself.

"Sir Richard." Startled, he looks up to see Norfolk's attention is now upon him, "If you are ready to commence drafting, I should be grateful if the necessary documents are in my possession by the end of the day."

"Of course, your Grace." Flustered, he fumbles his papers together and hastens from the chamber.

Halfway down the corridor, he checks inside his wallet for the list, and curses under his breath as he finds it to be gone: it must have fallen out. While he can remember what he has to do, there are additional comments that he shall not recall unless he retrieves it. Damnation - now he shall look an inept fool in front of those he means to impress. Annoyed, he turns and makes his way back to the chamber that he has just left.

"Of course, I shall be at your side to guide your steps, your Grace." Audley is saying, obsequiously, "I can control Parliament for you - and lawyers are ten-a-penny, are they not?"

"No - we need him. At least, at first." Wiltshire disagrees, "For all his vileness, he is a man of talent that we cannot ignore while we lay the foundations for the protectorship and ensure that it is well supported in law. His lack of scruples shall serve us well to remove any who stand in the way - as better men than he found to their cost. I agree that a man so unworthy of trust as that filthy weasel should not be permitted to gain power, however. He is a notorious liar and seeks only his own advancement - which shall make him inconvenient in due time. We do not want to raise up another Cromwell, do we?"

Shaken by their unguarded opinions of him, Rich wonders whether to confront them - but fear stays his hand, as it frequently does. Instead, he listens a little longer - in hopes that Norfolk shall rebuke them.

"I agree. We shall use him to prepare the legal papers that shall confirm my protectorship - and then we shall move against Cromwell - whether he is within these walls or not. A charge of misappropriation of the King's power shall be simple enough to evidence - and it shall be _such_ a shock to all when the Solicitor General is implicated as his accomplice. The two of them can ride together on hurdles to Tyburn where only one shall escape the misfortune of watching the other die first."

"Make him watch - he is a coward, and the crowd shall delight if he weeps, faints or pisses himself." Wiltshire sounds cruelly amused at the thought.

Standing without, Rich is not sure which is the worst of it - the casual dismissal of his worth, the fate they have planned for him, the scorn in which he is held or the humiliating collapse of those grand dreams of advancement that had brought him to their table.

His misery slowly turning to bitterness, he slinks away. If they wish to destroy him in gratitude for his aid, they shall not have it - but to whom can he turn if he is not to be destroyed? It is a certainty that they shall find a means to do so whether he serves them or not - and so he must fall in with another faction. Assuming that any other faction shall have him.

Something upon which, it seems, he is no longer able to rely.

* * *

Seated at a writing desk in his chambers, Suffolk settles back in his chair and reviews the fair copy of his correspondence. What he has written is truly treasonous in the eyes of the law as it stands; but, as the King himself has proved on numerous occasions, the law can be changed to serve the requirements of the state. There is little point in forging an alliance with the Seymours, as they have scant hope now of advancing their cause at Court. Even if _that_ woman were to be permitted to remain, she would never agree to the presence of Miss Jane amongst her ladies. Not even her father could force her to do that.

Norfolk is unlikely even to have told Mary that she has been orphaned - she is of little worth to the Duke and he has probably given no thought to her future at all. To England, however, she is the true heir to the throne - the daughter of the King's first, and only, wife. Besides, she is of age: a far better prospect for the realm than a mere child. It is not treason to want the best for one's Kingdom, is it?

No - the progeny of a false marriage, and her whore of a mother, shall not be permitted to stain the succession with their blood. While he pities the child - for she is not to blame for the acts of the wanton who bore her - his desire to keep an unworthy commoner from a throne that she does not deserve is stronger than his pity. If there is no King, and no man to replace him at any part of the succession, then they must look to the elder daughter, not the babe.

_Most gracious Lady Mary,_

_I beg you to forgive my failure to impart the news within this letter in person - but it is not possible to do so._

_It is with the greatest regret, and most heartfelt sorrow, that I must advise you that your noble, high and mighty father, King Henry the Eighth, was called to God upon the feast of St Albert of Montecorvino. As your friend and loyal subject, I humbly set myself before you as your servant in all matters pertaining to the succession, and offer my voice to speak for you at Court._

He pauses, worried over his next paragraph. If that is seen, then Norfolk shall do all in his might to bring him down.

_I fear that, in response to this great calamity, certain Lords of the Council seek to deprive you of your rights as the first true heir of the Kingdom, and instead look to your half-sister in your stead. In this direst hour of England's need, I consider it to be God's will that he has called the King home at a time when the child born of his invalid marriage is too young to accede the throne - but the child born of his first, true marriage is of an age where she may take her place at the forefront of her Kingdom, and lead England both to a future of peace and prosperity, and to the true Church, and the true faith._

_Thus I beseech you to instruct me as to your intentions and requirements, so that I might represent you before those who would rob you of your rights and just inheritances: the throne of England, France and Ireland. And you shall truly be worthy of that great title_ Fidei Defensor _, for you shall defend us from heresy, and restore us to the light of Christ's holy Church._

_In the name of our late, liege lord and King, and of our beloved, late Queen Katherine, I swear my fealty to you as your true subject - and look to better days to come, when I shall bow before you as my Queen._

No - it would not do for Norfolk to see that.

Regardless of the machinations of Cranmer, or Cromwell, or those thrice cursed Boleyns, Henry never truly looked to reformers to show him the way. No - perhaps his one fault in the matter was his refusal to accept the ascendancy of any man over him. He was God's anointed Prince - King of England, and no Pope could command him. Now, however, with Mary upon the throne, wanton England shall return to her true father, and cease her sinful wanderings. Henry would never have wanted his Kingdom to be governed by heretics.

He does not seal it with his own signet - but instead a small button that bears a cross pommy - and sets it carefully aside in a locked coffer. The means to deliver it to the Lady shall be convoluted - and require the assistance of several pairs of hands to reach her. The first of those pairs of hands shall not approach him until the later hours of the night - after which, he shall be obliged to sit quietly, say nothing, and hope that she replies.

* * *

Queen Anne emerges from her dressing chamber: clad now in the deepest black, accompanied by a cadre of her ladies in similar attire. Cromwell has withdrawn, for her ladies do not know of their alliance. What they do not know, they cannot tell.

Gathering up her small, most favoured book of hours, she hears the clock chime a single chime. She has not eaten; having no appetite, but Norfolk insists upon meeting her, so she shall do as asked. The meeting, however, shall be upon her terms, not his.

She knows better than to stake her claim at this point - for it can be too easily countered. No - her role now must be to play the stricken widow, willing to place herself in the safety of male guidance. Norfolk shall demand it of her, and so she shall grant him the deference he expects. For a while, at least.

Drawing herself up, she turns to Margery, "Shall we?"

If he is to meet her, then it shall be in the Presence Chamber of the King. While to her it is a statement of things to come, she has no doubt that all about her shall see it as a grief-stricken gesture of love to her lost husband. Or at least, that is how she shall explain it if they do not.

She moves through the corridors and halls with that briskness that marked her travels in brighter colours than the widows weeds that adorn her now. People bow deeply as she passes, but their faces betray shock - it seems that very few know that her husband is dead.

The throne of the King is before her on its raised dais, but she knows better than to seat herself in it, for it is not hers to claim. Instead, she turns to one of the stewards, "Matthew, I should be grateful if you could fetch a chair, and set it upon the floor ahead of the throne."

The young man bows, and brings across a richly upholstered seat for her, with a matching footstool. Arranging her ladies in a rank behind her, three to the left, three to the right, she sits and waits for her uncle to find her. He is not long about it.

"Why are you here, Majesty?" he asks, barely keeping hold of his temper. He has been to her presence chamber, only to find her gone.

"Where else would I be, your Grace?" she asks tremulously, "I am widowed - if I cannot be united with my beloved husband in the hereafter, then I sit in the closest proximity that is available to me."

Norfolk scowls, but does not argue. Better to let the woman cling to her fantasies if she wishes, "I have dispatched your brother to Hatfield to escort Queen Elizabeth to her Palace, Majesty." He advises, "They shall be here two days' hence, to allow for the slow pace of her baggage train."

"Thank you, your Grace." Anne allows herself to sound grateful. At least he shall not hold _that_ over her, though it shall be a struggle to deal with his temper once he discovers that she is gone, "I look forward to welcoming her Majesty to her new home. To have her here shall be a great consolation to me."

"I have tasked the Solicitor General with the preparation of her proclamation, and all legal papers that shall support her claim to the Throne."

_And yours_. Anne thinks to herself, cynically, but smiles gratefully and vacantly: the very image of a grieving woman relieved that a man has come to her aid, "When shall she be proclaimed?"

"Upon the morrow, if that is your wish? Her accession is automatic, of course - but the sooner the proclamation is made, the sooner her rule shall be accepted."

"Then that is my wish."

"The papers shall be delivered to you this evening." Norfolk's tone is infuriatingly smug, "The Solicitor General is drafting them as we speak."

"I look forward to receiving them."

Smiling in his triumph, Norfolk bows, and departs with a degree of deference that he seems quite sure he shall not have to adopt for much longer.

"Thank you ladies." She turns to her women, "Please return to my apartments. Lady Rochford, I should be grateful if you could accompany me. I wish to walk awhile."

They leave the palace and make their way out into the gardens, making their way between low hedges that ensure none can come to close to them unseen.

"My daughter is at Eltham, Jane." She says, quietly, "Mr Cromwell's Secretary has brought her safely from Hatfield, and she is now secure in a manor house in the park. I should like you to go there to ensure that she is well."

"Do you not trust Mr Cromwell's word, Majesty?"

"Not remotely." She smiles, "And he knows it. I have no doubt that she is where he says she is: I just wish for you to give her this." She retrieves a small, silk kerchief edged with the finest flanders lace, "A token for her from her loving mother."

Jane bobs a curtsey, "I shall report to you of her condition, Majesty."

"Thank you." She watches as the one member of her Court whom she feels safe to trust hastens away. Suddenly infinitely tired, she seeks a bench and sinks down upon it.

"Why, Henry?" She asks the empty air, "Why did you have to do this to us? I could have conceived again - I could have borne you the son you desired. Why could you not let me do it? Oh God - now what is there for me but endless battles for the sake of our child?" She hates him…and yet she loves him…

Fighting down a new bout of tears, she looks up to see her father at the far end of the garden. He has not yet seen her, though it appears that he is seeking her: and she waits, frozen to the spot, until he moves out of sight behind a high hedge. Then she slips quietly away, returning to the Palace by another route. She is too tired to endure another confrontation; that can be dealt with another day.

* * *

Cromwell peruses the last of the documents that he has been drafting. Most are now fair copies upon vellum, courtesy of Sadleir, but he wishes for the proclamation to be absolutely correct - particularly in relation to the future governance of the Realm. He has no more wish for Norfolk to be protector than the Queen; but if they are to prevent it, the legal structure must be as strong as it can be. Crowned she may be - but what is that against a determined man who can demand that his very maleness is a greater claim to govern? No - it must be confirmed in law, and even that may not be sufficient.

The sound of footsteps approaching startles him and he looks up to see that The Solicitor General has come in search of him, "Thank Christ," Rich says breathlessly, "I thought you to have left."

"Sir Richard?"

"Norfolk plots to claim the Protectorship."

"And you think I do not know that?"

"I…" Rich's voice trails off, and he looks a little helpless. It could not be clearer that he was hoping his tidings would be helpful.

"I take it that he did not accept your fealty, Sir Richard?" Cromwell has no intention of making this easy for his colleague.

"He did, Mr Secretary - and I departed to commence work upon the documents that shall confirm his protectorship; only to find that I had dropped a vital paper."

Cromwell nods. He can guess what is coming next.

"When I returned, I overheard Audley, Wiltshire and Norfolk discussing my fate. I am useful only to secure their positions - after which I am to be arrested as a co-conspirator upon trumped up charges, and slaughtered like a pig at Tyburn." His voice betrays his hurt bitterness.

"Co-conspirator?" Cromwell asks, "I take it that I am the other?" He resumes his perusal of the proclamation.

"Yes, Mr Secretary." Rich shuffles, uncomfortably.

"And you have come to me in hopes of saving your sorry, worthless hide?" He does not look up from his papers.

Rich swallows: there is no point in denying it. Not if he is to succeed in keeping all that he has won, "Yes, Mr Secretary."

Cromwell's eyes flick back up to him again, "If you think that I shall grant you my trust, then you are as much a fool as I would be to do so. This is a business arrangement; nothing more, nothing less."

"I am content with that, Mr Secretary. Your life depends upon it, as does mine. If we are to survive, we must do so together. Therefore I shall offer my services to her Majesty the Queen. I should advise you to do likewise - for there is no other."

Cromwell shakes his head, tutting softly, "Dear, dear, Mr Rich - do you truly think that I have not come to the same conclusion? I learned of the death of the King near-on a week ago - as did her Majesty. All that we have done in the intervening time has been in preparation for this moment."

"And the new Queen?"

"Safely housed nearby. Norfolk knows nothing of her whereabouts - and, I am afraid, that shall be the same situation for you."

Rich sighs: he has no right to expect such valuable knowledge, but to be denied it rankles nonetheless.

Cromwell hears the slight sound, and understands it, "Trust must be earned, Sir Richard. I shall endeavour to earn the Queen's, and I expect you to do likewise. If we cannot trust one another, then we are all lost. I imagine to be trusted shall be something of a novelty for you."

It is not a question. His expression sullen, Rich acquiesces, "I shall endeavour to earn both your trust and that of her Majesty." He does not deserve any better - he knows it. His survival has always hinged upon his ability to identify the faction that is rising, and that which is falling - but his foolish greed quelled that talent almost to the degree of leading him to proudly parade to his own destruction.To have come so close to that most dread of fates for a Courtier has chastened him considerably; and now he must resume that humiliating grovelling that all lowly courtiers must endure to advance themselves.

Cromwell is concentrating upon his papers again, and Rich appreciates that even now the Secretary is not entirely convinced that he is not being primed for information that can be granted to Norfolk. He wrings his hands, briefly - an awkward habit when stressed that he has never been able to eradicate - and tries again, "Mr Secretary; I am well aware that I have no man's trust - and it is only now that I find myself left stranded upon a sandbank by the receding tide; but I give you my word - such as it is - that I have not come here at the behest of Norfolk, or of Wiltshire. Men such as you and I must fight now for our futures; nay, our very lives. Knight I may be, and a Gentleman, but I have no higher rank, and thus Norfolk dismisses me as he dismisses you. God knows that I do not deserve trust - not yet: but the sincerity of the men who laughed amongst themselves as they discussed sending me to a brutal and bloody death is sufficient warning to me that I must seek other friends to avoid that fate. If we do not best him, he shall act against us - and we shall die." He pauses, "And…and…I am afraid to die." His voice wavers slightly - an honest waver, for he is truly afraid.

Cromwell raises his head again. Yes, he can see it in the fading light as the evening draws in. Rich is no longer flushed with exertion, but is instead pale - and his hands are trembling. The man is indeed fearful for his life - which is no surprise if he has overheard honestly spoken words that have discussed his condemnation. There is no deception in his behaviour, and thus the Secretary relents, "Draw up a chair, Mr Rich. I had hoped to discuss these papers with you - but for your reputation and the fear that you might betray me. Since it is unlikely that you shall do so now, I should be pleased if you could cast your learned eye upon these copies of the bills and the Proclamation that shall secure the Queen Elizabeth - and the Dowager Queen Anne as her Regent."

"Who shall be Protector, then?" Rich asks, fetching over a chair as bid.

"That, Mr Rich, remains to be seen."

He stares, "No one is to be named? Does her Majesty mean to keep all of the Council in suspense until she names one?"

It is no surprise to Cromwell that Rich has not divined his meaning. The very thought that a Queen of England could be a Regent in the absence of a lawful King would not have occurred to him - as it did not occur to the Secretary himself until her Majesty suggested it, "The less that the Council know of her Majesty's will, the less likely they are to be prepared to overturn it. His Majesty died without making any amendments to his will for the succession, so Elizabeth shall be Queen. That much we do know; but anything further must remain as quiet as can be achieved - or we shall still yet find ourselves side by side upon sheep hurdles, making our final journey to the noose."

Rich swallows, nervously. To think that, a mere four days ago, they were preparing the ground to send the Dowager Queen to the block.

* * *

Lady Rochford's face as she enters the Queen's presence is remarkably cheerful, but she waits until Anne summons her before approaching, "I have given your gift, Majesty. It was received with joy and gratitude. The recipient is well, and is quartered more than appropriately for their state. The attendants are somewhat bemused - but I have advised that you shall explain all in due time." She curtseys, deeply, as Anne smiles.

"Thank you, Lady Rochford." At least that is good news, in the face of all the horrors that have piled upon her over the last few days. Elizabeth is indeed at Eltham, is in good health, and - most importantly - is safe from her uncle, "I have a mind to play chess awhile. Would you care to join me?"

The other ladies are still most bemused - and not a little jealous - at Jane Rochford's rather sudden rise to favour; but none comment as the Queen and her apparent new favourite draw up chairs at the chessboard. There is little that they can say that shall not be overheard, of course, so they say nothing now. The gossip that ripples outwards once free from her scrutiny is another matter.

One of the stewards is lighting candles in the growing dusk as an usher enters, "Majesty, Mr Secretary Cromwell is without, and seeks an audience."

Anne looks up from her pieces, "Thank you, Michael. Ladies, would you excuse us, please?" she catches Jane's hand as she also rises, and shakes her head, briefly. If nothing else, she needs a chaperone. Matters are too dangerous now to be without one.

Moving to a chair beside the fire, she nods to the usher, who opens the door. To her surprise, however, the Secretary is not alone, for he has the Solicitor General with him. God - what is this?

"Majesty." Cromwell bows deferentially, "Permit me to present you with fair copies of her Majesty's proclamation, the bill that shall authorise her immediate coronation, and a further bill that shall authorise your regency." He pauses, "Sir Richard has made amendments that shall strengthen both documents when they are set before Parliament following the proclamation of the Queen Elizabeth."

Her eyes flick across to the newest apparent member of her entirely secret council, who bows awkwardly, "And what drove you to my door, Sir Richard Rich?"

He does not attempt to make excuses, "The threat of being hanged, Majesty. That, and the drawing and quartering that would follow it."

"My goodness, Sir Richard. It seems remarkable to me that you have managed to offend someone so utterly in so short a space of time."

"I decided that it would be wise to be useful to another, rather than one who would send me to my death once I had outlasted such usefulness." He adds, a little bitterly.

Anne sighs. Her uncle has always been ambitious - after all, he sees such ambition as his right. That he is willing to use, and discard, men for his own purposes is also nothing new to her. Has he not used her? At least she knew it from the beginning. It seems, however, that Rich has discovered it by chance - and undoubtedly saved his own life in the process.

Or perhaps delayed his death. There is no guarantee that Norfolk shall not outflank them - their only weapon is the whereabouts of the new Queen. No matter how many cards he holds, Elizabeth is the triumph - and as long as she is protected from the grasping Duke, all remains safe.

"It cannot be much longer before his Grace discovers that the Queen is no longer at Hatfield, Majesty." Cromwell advises, gravely, "Once he discovers it, I have no doubt that he shall deduce in short order that you are responsible - and possibly that I have aided you."

"Then we must act quickly, Mr Secretary. It is too late, I think, to lay these documents before Parliament - but is it necessary to do so? Would I be correct in stating that my late Husband, when so minded, granted assent to Bills without recourse to the burghers of St Stephen's Chapel?"

Cromwell's eyes widen as he takes in her meaning, "Majesty - I cannot guarantee that your signature shall be accepted."

"Then I shall feign ignorance."

"Use the Seal." Rich says, suddenly, "The presence of the Great Seal is as good as the King's own hand - and is evidence of his official will. It might cause those who would gainsay your Majesty to baulk - and thereby grant us time to secure the consent of Parliament additional to that of the Queen.I have no doubt that it shall not be destroyed until the proclamation has been made, and thus remains valid - in a manner of speaking.“

"But Thomas Audley has it." Cromwell reminds Rich, "And he is hardly likely to hand it over, is he?"

Rich shrugs, "He keeps it in a closet with a lock that is the easiest to break in all of Christendom. I have been tasked with the drafting of the papers Norfolk requires, so I have no doubt that our Lord Chancellor is well settled with a game of dice and a long draught of ale."

Anne leans forward, "You can retrieve it?"

"Yes Majesty."

"Then do so. Do so and win my appreciation - and, in time, my trust." Her eyes are keen, her expression intent, "Mr Cromwell, fetch the means to create the disc, and some red wax."

She sits back in her chair, feeling truly alive for the first time in weeks as the two men depart upon their separate missions. Tonight it shall happen. Tonight, she shall act.

Tonight, she shall truly be a Queen.


	9. A Proclamation to Remember

Norfolk sits beside the fire, a cup of good claret at his elbow, and a multitude of grandiose plans in his head. Richard Rich is at work, preparing the documents that shall grant him mastery of the Kingdom - all unaware that his act shall be the last he shall undertake before his destruction. And if Cromwell is still within the walls of the Palace? God help the low born bastard…

The noise of his chamber door being thrown opens startles him out of his reverie, and sends the cup to the floor to spill its contents across the expensive carpet. Furious, he turns, "What the hell are you doing?"

"She's gone!" Rochford pants, "The Princess is taken!"

His eyes widening, Norfolk rises to his feet, "Elizabeth?"

Rochford nods, "I arrived at Hatfield yesterday at two hours after noon, only to be told that the Princess Elizabeth had been summoned by her royal father to Hampton Court, and that she had departed two days prior with her ladies and baggage train. Only the Lady Mary remained."

There are heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, and soon Wiltshire is also present, having been summoned courtesy of a steward when Rochford dismounted in the Mews.

"And?" Norfolk prompts.

"I rode with all haste to Hampton Court, though I was obliged to change horses halfway. There, I found naught but drudges and stewards - and no knowledge of the whereabouts of the Princess."

At once, he is pacing back and forth, "How can this be? None knew of the King's death but Suffolk, and we heard of it only when he returned to…"

Slowly, the three men turn to one another. It is Suffolk - it has to be. He must have sent on ahead to secure the girl himself.

Wiltshire scowls, "What are we to do? He is equal in rank - he is a Duke, and he had the King's favour. What would prevent him from claiming that the King did not die immediately, but granted him the Protectorship before he passed?"

"No." Norfolk shakes his head, "He is devious, yes, but also impulsive. I have no doubt he would have claimed the Protectorship for himself upon the day that he brought the corpse back."

"I am not so sure." Rochford shakes his head, "If he is to secure his position, he must secure the Princess first - and thus perhaps he did not do as we would have expected. He is more cunning than most appreciate; particularly when looking to his own gain. Has he not married his own ward in order to keep her lands?"

"That is hardly cunning." Wiltshire scoffs.

"It is possible." Norfolk disagrees, "If he is to grasp the Protectorship for himself - he would be keen to do so in order to dislodge Anne. Whoever leads the Council in the Queen's minority shall be King in all but name - and the King's widow shall be irrelevant - what better way to his mind than this to wipe out the stain of the King's break with Rome?The child is young enough for her education to be modified to his requirements, and she shall soon be kissing the feet of the Pope as her whorish mother will not.“

“And we shall kiss nothing but the block.” Wiltshire spits, viciously, "Very well, your Grace; let us agree that our enemy is indeed Suffolk. What are we do to if he has the Princess in his clutches? He is a Duke, too."

"Then we let it be whispered abroad that he was the last to see the King alive - and perhaps conspired with those wretched Seymours to depose the King and grasp the crown for himself through the King's babe." Rochford says, quickly.

Norfolk rolls his eyes at such a foolish plan, "And thus shall we all become washerwomen, gossiping over the washboards. No; I shall call the council together on the morrow, and make the proclamation there and then. None can prevent it, for I have precedence over all of them. Not even the dowager Queen can do so." He looks up at the clock upon his mantel, "Where the hell is that rodent Rich? Surely even he does not need so long to draft a bloody proclamation? God - I shall not send him to Tyburn on a hurdle, I shall have him flogged behind a cart from the Tower to the scaffold."

"I shall seek him out." Rochford promises, and hastens away.

"Tomorrow," Norfolk snaps, "I shall proclaim myself Protector whether we have the brat in the Palace or not."

* * *

As Rich had hoped, Audley has long departed his office, assuming that the work of the proclamation is in safe hands. He is not a brave man - he never has been - and every step he makes is tentative, for fear of discovery. There are no guards nearby, for they patrol outside the Palace, not within, and the stewards have also long gone.

The office door is, to his surprise, unlocked, though he still enters nervously, already practising his excuse if the room turns out not to be empty. Not that there is much need for security for the Great Seal now - the King is dead, and so the only requirement is to ceremonially break it up; though not before it is used for one last document.

Stealth is no more his talent than bravery, and he stifles a sharp curse as his sleeve catches against a candlestick. Only a swift snatch prevents it dropping to the floor with a loud clatter, and he sets it back upon the table, his heart hammering violently. Over and over again, he reminds himself of the alternative to what he is doing - unaware that the punishment has been increased in his absence - and keeps his mind firmly upon the task in hand, fetching out his pen-knife to force the lock. While he is hardly an expert at the art, it was one of a few skills other than the law that he accumulated during his younger years in the Middle Temple, and not one that he thought he would be obliged to use again after he left those days behind. As he advised, the lock is stupidly easy to force, and he opens the doors of the closet carefully, hoping and praying that he shall find what he needs.

The Great Seal is double sided, created using a flat lower matrix, and an upper one set into a handle so that it can be pressed into a wax mould. The pair are kept in a velvet bag bound at the top with an elaborately braided cord. Hopefully it has not yet been removed…

_Thank Christ_ …relieved beyond measure, Rich reaches in and grasps the bag, before pushing the doors to, and making a hasty escape.

Elsewhere, Lady Rochford is busy clearing a table of ornaments and the tablecloth, before setting down a thick wooden board atop the polished surface, while Anne has spent the time carefully reading through the draft bills, and noting, with approval, that the authorisation of her Regency sets out clear boundaries that shall transfer all royal power into her daughter's hands upon her coming of age. It shall be hard enough to convince men that she has no intention of stealing Elizabeth's crown for herself, but to have set that clear date down in law should serve as at least a fair assurance. Already, the Secretary has returned, concealing a number of sticks of sealing wax, and a mould into which it can be poured. All raise their heads as Rich enters with his prize carefully concealed under his long simarre, "I have it."

"Well done." Anne approves, though she, too, is tense. They are acting entirely illegally now - but to affix the Great Seal to a document is as good as the signature of the King. The debates that shall ensue over whether it is still valid should keep the Council busy for a while until Parliament have spoken - and silenced the councillors once and for all.

Both men have prepared wax discs before, and Cromwell drops four of the sticks into a pot that he sets to heat over a candle flame, while Rich fetches out the two matrices of the Seal and sets the reverse seal on the board, and holds the obverse ready.

"We shall need cords to create the pendants." Jane adds, "Or shall ribbons suffice?"

Wordlessly, Anne retreats to her bedchamber, and returns with a handful of silk ribbons, "Is the colour of the ribbon significant?"

"Not particularly, Majesty." Cromwell advises, swirling the pot gently as the wax within begins to soften, "Once we have created them, the seals must be affixed to the documents. As the medium is vellum, bone paste is the best adhesive."

"I have some." Anne looks across to Lady Rochford, who crosses to a coffer where the ladies keep paper cuttings to form into decorative papier mâché ornaments, and retrieves a rather sticky-looking pot.

"How is the wax coming?" Rich asks, as he sets the metal ring of the mould into the lower matrix to contain it when it is poured.

"A little longer." Cromwell says, "Is there a ribbon prepared?"

Anne steps forth with a length of red silk, "Here, Mr Secretary." She pauses, and wrinkles her nose, "That is a most noisome odour."

"My apologies, Majesty."

At length, the wax is liquid enough to pour, but not so liquid that it shall spill everywhere. Carefully, Cromwell tilts the pot and allows a small amount to pool over the reverse matrix, whereupon Rich carefully lays the red ribbon over the puddle, with long lengths draped over the rims. Before the wax can thicken too much, Cromwell tops up the remaining wax to the rim, "Now we must wait a moment, until the wax has hardened sufficiently to take an impression."

He turns then, "Majesty - perhaps you would like the honour of sealing your daughter's proclamation?"

Anne stands up more straight, and squares her shoulders, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell, I should like that very much."

Bowing, Rich hands over the obverse matrix, and steps aside. A foolish gesture, perhaps, but they are all bound together now in this enterprise, and if they fail, they die.

It is an annoyingly long wait for the wax to thicken to the point that she can apply the seal, but at last it is ready, "Press firmly, Majesty; you are impressing from above and below."

Taking Cromwell's advice, she sets the seal carefully onto the disc of wax, and then leans downwards. It is more than the sealing of a document: to her, it is as though she is grinding her heel into Norfolk's face. _Overthrow me now, Uncle_.

She rises, allowing Cromwell to disassemble the pieces and retrieve the seal - on one side, her late husband in armour astride a horse, on the other, seated upon the throne with orb and sceptre in his hands. A gesture, perhaps - but a powerful one.

Smiling, she turns to her colleagues, "One is done - there are three more. Shall we?"

* * *

The hall is full of subdued conversation, and the aromas of the evening meal; but there are few people of consequence present, and Suffolk wanders around the gathering slowly, remembering a time when there was a King seated upon the dais. Now, there is no one present - not the Queen, nor any of her kin. Even Norfolk is absent. It could not be clearer that they are planning their next move; but he has not yet been able to uncover whether they are together, or at odds.

The atmosphere is a strange mixture of forced cheer and nervous speculation. All know that their King is dead, but as yet, there is no news as to the succession. While he is hardly the most honest man at the Council table, he has always been known for his specific loyalty and friendship to the late King. Unfortunately, he seems now to be alone in that sentiment, as everyone around him is assuming that Norfolk shall declare himself Protector - and waits for him to do so.

The sequence of messengers that delivered his letter to Hatfield are yet to provide him with a reply from the Lady Mary, and he wonders whether it was possible to deliver it. Given that she is most certainly watched, and her correspondence spied upon, opportunities to deliver letters to her are few and far between unless one knows who to ask. Even then, the risk of being caught palming a missive is high - and he knows of at least three servants who have been whipped and dismissed after being found with a gift or a note.

If she does not hurry - then she shall be left in the wake of whichever great galleon ploughs its way through the rough waters ahead, dragging all of England behind it. Perhaps she is too afraid to answer him - or is too wise to take such a ghastly risk; but if she does not, then she shall be helpless against a great bastion of legal impediments that shall cast her as a traitor intending to destroy the realm in revenge for being shut out of the succession. He would not put it past Norfolk to paint her in so grievous a light.

He has no appetite, and does not linger at any of the tables, instead intending to retreat to his chambers to sample a good claret that his manservant has secured. As he approaches the door, however, a steward approaches him, "Your Grace, I have a letter for you."

Bemused he takes it, for it seems odd that Mary would respond so openly. Turning it over, however, he finds instead the crest of the Seymours - a pair of gull's wings - pressed into the wax. God, what does Seymour want now? Surely he must accept that his hopes of favour are dead?

Safely secure in his parlour, he breaks the seal and finds that the letter is not from Sir John - but instead from his elder Son, Edward.

_Your Grace,_

_It grieves me to advise you that my noble father, Sir John Seymour passed away two nights past; and thus I am now the master of Wulfhall._

_In light of this, I humbly place myself in your service, and that of the Crown. Wheresoever I may be of use to you, I shall serve you with loyalty, diligence and discretion._

_Please advise me of your will._

_Yours_

_E Seymour_

So he is still determined to try for a place at court, then. Carefully discarding the letter in the fire, Suffolk considers the offer. If he is to prevail, and to bring the Lady Mary to her true inheritance, he shall need men for her retinue. He knows that Seymour is ambitious, determined and cunning - and he is not well known at Court, so none shall have the measure of him. Perhaps, then, there shall indeed be a use for him - assuming, of course, that Mary ever sends a reply. God, what is keeping the girl? Does she not understand the urgency? Norfolk shall hardly tarry when it comes to setting a crown upon the babe Elizabeth's head - and it shall then be far harder to unseat her. England might well prefer to have Mary - but would they dare to overturn the will of God? For if the babe is anointed, then that is precisely what she shall be - God's chosen.

If she does not move swiftly, then Mary shall find herself left behind. And so shall he.

* * *

The candles have burned low by the time Cromwell straightens up, having pressed the last seal that - dubiously, perhaps - grants assent to the bill that shall confirm Anne as Regent in place of a Protector. His left forefinger is scalded, while Rich has red blobs of wax stuck to the fur of his simarre, and Anne is grateful that they set a board upon the table, judging by the spillage that occurred when they attempted the third moulding while the wax was too soft.

Most of the pendants are now affixed to the vellum of what are now, at least cosmetically, Acts of Parliament. Whether they can force the Council to accept them is another matter entirely - but the shock of their act should at least give them a grace period to gather themselves while the councillors squabble over the validity of the papers they have prepared.

Seating herself, and brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, Anne regards the two men who have aided her. Remarkably, while they have worked on the business of creating the seals, they have cooperated easily and with good humour, and it is clear to her that, should they truly put their differences aside, they shall prove to be a formidable force in her Government. Assuming, of course, that she can establish one.

"Is there anything left that we must do before the morrow?" she asks, stifling a yawn.

"One thing, I think." Cromwell muses, "While all are keen to see how matters shall play out, I think it likely that none have taken steps to secure themselves beyond spoken statements." He turns, "Madame, is there a steward without?"

"I shall see, Mr Secretary." Lady Rochford says, still pressing the last ribbon to the remaining sheet of vellum. Leaving the paste to dry, she looks outside the chamber, and returns with a youth who seems to have been roused from sleep.

Crossing to the Queen's writing table, Cromwell snatches a piece of rough paper, and loads a quill from the ink pot, "Take this letter to the Captain of the King's Guard. They are, as yet, uncertain of their future role - so I think we should give them one."

Nervous, the young man takes the folded note, and departs; attempting to ignore the dishevelled state of the Queen, the reek of bone-glue and the fact that Rich has removed his simarre and is attempting to pick flecks of hardened wax off the fur trim.

"My goodness," Anne observes, blandly, "We are truly a vision of Courtly dignity."

Still picking at the wax, Rich snorts with amusement, while Lady Rochford laughs and even Cromwell breaks a small smile as he returns his attention to the writing table, and starts scribbling again. Watching her small Court-to-be, Anne feels at ease for the first time in weeks - though she is not fool enough to think that all is secure. No - tomorrow shall be a far deadlier prospect, and there is no certainty that the two men who have spent the evening pouring wax shall not end tomorrow aboard a barge making for the Tower. Wily though her uncle might be, he does not share the sheer intelligence of Thomas Cromwell or Richard Rich. They can most assuredly match him in cunning, and deviousness; but she has no doubt that Norfolk has not even thought to summon the Guard and seek their assistance in his claim for the throne.

By the time the steward arrives with the Captain, who looks most drowsy, Rich has given up on the wax, while Anne has replaced her hood with the aid of Lady Rochford. Bemused, the man bows, "Majesty? Forgive me, I was abed."

"No, please forgive me, Captain. I am sorry that I have summoned you at such an hour. But I must ask a favour of you."

"Yes, Majesty." He does not question her authority - she is, after all, the King's wife, and he has sworn to upload the King's law.

"Tomorrow, her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth shall be proclaimed. Owing to her tender years, I shall make the proclamation upon her behalf - and I must ask you to ensure that I am able to do so without interruption. I must, therefore, ask you - here and now - to swear your loyalty to her Majesty, and to uphold her rights and inheritances."

"Of course, Majesty - I had assumed that we would do so upon her proclamation."

"Indeed, Sir. But before she is proclaimed, I must also ask you to swear that you shall uphold every command contained therein."

"We are duty bound to serve the Crown, whomsoever wears it, Majesty. Thus we shall obey the Queen's every command with loyalty and diligence."

Rising from her chair, she crosses to a small cupboard, opens it and indicates inside, "Within is the Scripture. Would you please rest your hand upon it and swear your loyalty to Queen Elizabeth."

Behind the Captain, Cromwell and Rich exchange a nervous glance - he could baulk at this…what if he claims that it is not appropriate to do so before the Queen is proclaimed?

"Her Majesty is Queen, by the King's law, proclamation or no. I shall swear it, Majesty." Without hesitation, the bluff man steps forth.

"What is your name, Captain?"

"Walter Palmer, Majesty." He bows again.

"Thank you, Captain Palmer." She looks across at Cromwell. He has said nothing of his further scrivenings, but already she has guessed what he has done, "If you please, could you pass the oath to the Captain?"

"Of course, Majesty." Fortunately, his writing is not too rushed - equally fortunately, Palmer is able to read.

"I, Captain of the Guard," He says, a little haltingly, "do solemnly swear that the Royal Guard shall loyally and faithfully serve her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and abide by all her commands that shall serve and protect the Realms of England, France and Ireland. Upon pain of death, so help me God."

"I am grateful to you, Captain." Anne smiles at him as he steps back and bows again, "It is my intention to proclaim Elizabeth queen tomorrow at the hour ten of the clock, ante meridian. Thus I ask that you assemble your men as my escort in the Presence Chamber ten minutes prior, after which we shall process to the King's Presence Chamber, where the Council shall be waiting."

She does not add that Norfolk expects her to allow him to get on with the proclamation himself in that exact location.

As Palmer departs, she smiles to herself. Yes, he wishes to make a proclamation. If only he had a proclamation to make.

* * *

Early morning mist wreathes the parkland in drifting wisps of white as a party of horsemen make their way across the countryside, scattering game birds as they go.

At the head of the column, Cromwell has chosen to wear rather less dour garments - exchanging his usual black for a dark green instead, while his usual chain of office has been replaced with a magnificent gold collar of esses, something that the Queen has insisted he wear, given the task he is to undertake at her command.

All is done - the State papers are written and sealed, while those who have prepared them shall gather at the hour of nine to ensure that they have missed nothing. It is likely to be a shock for the Queen's ladies, of course, but they shall be escorting a woman into the presence of the council, and one who shall scandalise all of Christendom by proclaiming herself Regent of England over the heads of all her late husband's Lords.

Not that she is unused to such a circumstance, of course.

It does not take them long to reach their destination, a small, but well appointed manor house within the park of Eltham. No-one royal has ever lived here, and thus it is by far the safest place to hide one.

Such is the clamour of horses and men as they dismount at the front of the house, that Lady Bryan herself emerges to demand to know the cause of the hubbub, fortunately, she is an early riser - taking her role as the Governess of the Princess with all seriousness - and is appropriately gowned to meet them.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" she demands, angrily, "Her highness is still abed!"

Ah. She does not yet know, then. Cromwell is not surprised that Ralph could not find it in himself to tell them that Elizabeth's father is dead. Much less that his corpse is still ensconced in its ill-made coffin in a game cellar while the machinations of those who intend to command the Kingdom in his stead remain unresolved. Such is the way of life; the King is dead, long live the King. Or Queen, he amends inside his head.

"Forgive my intrusion, Madame." He bows, having dismounted while she was fussing, "I must speak to you with all urgency - it is a matter that concerns your royal charge, and we must act swiftly."

She frowns, and Cromwell recognises a mind as sharp as any that he has seen in a woman - she seems to have already guessed from the manner in which he has arrived, and the garments he is wearing. They are far too formal for a mere visit by the King's Chief Minister, after all.

"Come inside." She concedes, and leads him into the house, leaving the escort without.

Now that he is within the walls, Cromwell is pleased - for Ralph chose this place well. From the grounds, it seems to be a rather poor place - built with wealth now lost. But inside, it is most comfortable, with fine carpets upon the floors rather than rushes, elaborately carved wainscoting and fragrant applewood fires in the grates. Yes - an ideal place to conceal a child-Queen from those who would use her for their own ends. He shudders - but for the enmity of the Duke of Norfolk, he might well have been one of them. Indeed, he is not entirely sure he is not one of them now.

"Mr Cromwell?" Lady Bryan prompts, brusquely, "I am in the process of supervising her Highness's toilette and morning devotions. Please say what you must, then depart."

"I understand your concerns, my Lady." He answers, "But it is my sad duty to inform you that his Majesty the King passed away near-on a week ago. Thus today the Princess Elizabeth is to be proclaimed Queen."

She makes to protest, shocked, but he stops her, "Forgive me, but time is short. Her Majesty's tender years, and her sex, place her in a most difficult position, for there are various Lords who conspire against one another to rule over England as Lord Protector - and in doing so, it is her mother's great fear that her just rights and inheritances shall be stolen from her. Thus, her Majesty Queen Anne decreed that her daughter be housed here until the appropriate moment of her Proclamation, and that moment has now come. Therefore, I ask you to rouse the Queen from her slumbers, and ensure that she is appropriately gowned for her new life. She shall be in the care of her mother, and you shall be at her side to protect her wellbeing - that I can assure you. Her Majesty's life shall change irrevocably - but it is your duty to smooth that transition, while the Queen Anne, and her eventual council, shall protect her from those who would steal her authority, and teach her to rule this great Nation."

Lady Bryan looks at him with narrowed eyes, a hard, piercing stare that seems to bore into him to the very core of his soul. There is no duplicity for her to discover - for his words are sincere. Queen Anne has made her intentions clear, and he intends to stand beside her as her Chief Minister. Regardless of the corrupt behaviour that has gone before, now he must be as unimpeachably honest as is possible - for any other act would surely bring him down.

After a few moments, she begins to issue orders, "You, David," she stops a passing steward, "Go out to the stables and set the grooms to work on the Princess Elizabeth's travelling litter. Have them be ready to depart in a half hour - three quarters at most." She turns to Cromwell for confirmation, and he nods. That should be sufficient time to get her safely into the Queen's apartments before hostile eyes are too aware of what is going on outside their windows.

With little to do but wait, Cromwell leaves the new Queen's governess to organise her departure to Placentia and leafs through some papers on a small writing table near the window of a small chamber nearby. The writing upon the papers is ungoverned, but it is more-or-less legible, and he realises that he is reading a piece of writing by his new Queen. Dear Christ, she is not yet three years of age, and already a paper-wrapped stub of charcoal has been set between her fingers. At least it is not in latin - that would be far beyond the realms of possibility for one so young. The words are instead simple, repetitions of 'Cat' or 'Dog' or other such words - with the sole intention of teaching her the dexterity required to wield a pen. No - it is mere hobby at this time; but it suggests that she has inherited the intelligence of both of her parents, which can only be a good sign.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brings him back into the entrance hall again, and he sees the new Queen being escorted by her women, and two stewards with staffs of office. As befits the requirement to be in mourning, she is dressed in black - a miniature rendition of the stiff gowns of those much older than she - and wears appropriate mourning jewellery. There is no suggestion of grief, however, for she has seen her father so rarely that he is too remote a figure to truly be missed. Perhaps that shall change once she is reunited with her mother - for Anne has endeavoured to spend as much time with her as was permitted.

As soon as she is in front of him, she stops, and he immediately bows deeply, "Majesty." Yes - she knows; there is no surprise at the manner in which she has been addressed, but she says nothing, instead waiting for him to rise, before Lady Bryan speaks for her, "Mr Secretary - please lead on."

They emerge into the Mews to find that the escort are forming up, while two horses, one harnessed to the fore, the other to the rear, now carry the new Queen's travelling litter. It is, to some extent rather more a bed than a chair, but it does have the virtue of curtains that can be closed - and therefore hide the identity of the occupant. Above all things today, they must retain the element of surprise; or they are all lost.

Rather than enter via the main gates, instead, they travel to a small, unregarded door set into the walls of the Queen's Privy Garden, where Lady Rochford is watching for them. From there, it is a simple matter to conduct the young girl from the warm concealment of her litter into the safety of her mother's apartments, and Anne's face at the sight of her child is a sight to behold.

Anne has never been regarded as beautiful in a Court where fair hair and blue eyes are worshipped as the blessed standard - her dark locks and darker eyes being unconventional and of little interest. Now, however, she is luminous, her eyes alight with joy at the sight of her child, who abandons formality and runs to her with equal happiness, "Mama!"

"My Elizabeth!" she laughs, delightedly scooping the girl up in her arms and whirling her around, "My dearest darling girl!"

Standing nearby Lady Rochford looks on with tearful eyes, while Rich has emerged from his own chambers to join them, and stands nearby looking far more benign than he ever does in the offices. Lady Bryan is dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief while, to his embarrassment, Cromwell realises that even he has a lump in his throat.

Regardless of the tenderness of the reunion, the years to come shall be hard for this little girl. She is now a Queen, with all that such rank demands. Anne might well do all that she can to shield her from the worst of it - but it shall still be a long, painful journey for her.

"Mr Cromwell," Anne has set her daughter down again, "the hour approaches. Thank you for ensuring my daughter's safe return to my side. Now we shall see whether our preparations shall bear fruit."

He bows again, "Thank you, Majesty. There is but one more thing that I wish to do before we depart from here to the Presence Chamber."

Anne frowns, bemused, but then understands his intentions has he goes down upon his knees before her, and her daughter, "Majesty, I give you my word that, from this day forth, I shall serve you, and your royal mother, loyally, absolutely and diligently. As God is my witness."

Elizabeth looks rather dumbfounded, but Anne acknowledges his oath with a smile, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell. Where once we held one another in enmity, now we shall stand together to defend our Queen's throne and inheritance."

Still on his knees, Cromwell notices a movement beside him, and is relieved to find that Rich has joined him on his knees, "Majesty," he says, with rather more conviction than Cromwell has ever heard him use before, "I, too, give you my word that I shall also serve you, and your royal mother, with loyalty and diligence. I am a poor excuse for a servant, but I shall stand with you as you claim your inheritance, and your Kingdom. So help me God."

Cromwell blinks, he had no idea that Rich could be so eloquent while being honest. He more usually speaks so when engaged in an act of deceit. If nothing else, the last two days have given him cause to view the man beside him with new eyes. Come to that, the woman behind them, and the woman to the fore, as well.

"Thank you, Mr Rich." Anne acknowledges his oath, "I give thanks to God that I am served by men of talent and loyalty. Now, I can only hope that our next steps shall not be our last. Come, let us see whether we can hold this Kingdom for her new Queen."

* * *

As the hour of ten approaches, the majority of the late King's council have assembled in his untenanted Presence Chamber. It has been agreed that the new Queen shall be proclaimed - but how, and by whom, seems as yet undetermined.

Norfolk, however, remains outside the door, and fumes. That blasted rodent Rich never arrived with his drafts of the statutes that shall set Elizabeth upon the throne with her great-uncle as Lord Protector - with all appropriate rights and privileges to rule in the name of a girl of less than three years. The intended punishment has widened even further now to include a thorough racking before being whipped to Tyburn and hanged. More fool him for trusting a low-ranking, unscrupulous gentry-born lawyer. If it be so, then he shall extemporise upon the spot, and track the duplicitous little weasel down afterwards. The fact that he does not even know where Queen Elizabeth is seems no longer to matter.

Wiltshire and Rochford are already in the Chamber, close to the front in expectation of high honours when he forms his new Council. Being kinsmen, that is only to be expected - though he is having second thoughts about Rochford after his failure to secure the child. Cursing under his breath, Norfolk gives up waiting for his documents, and enters the Chamber.

No one present seems to have the first idea what is happening, and the conversation is subdued - and uncomfortable. Suffolk is standing to the side, looking thoroughly discomfited. In spite of all his hopes, he has not yet received any answer from the Lady Mary, and can only assume that his letter to her was intercepted - or perhaps hers back to him. He cannot believe that she would not have agreed that he put forth her claim to the vacant throne - but it seems almost as though she has.

No - the letter must have miscarried. If Norfolk attempts to claim the Protectorship, it matters not - he shall try again…

He is roused from his musings by the footsteps of the Duke as he makes his way to the front of the chamber, but does not presume to mount the steps to the vacant throne. Even _he_ is not brave enough to do such a thing - no matter how proud he is, or how privileged he feels.

Instead, he stands before the gathered Lords, opens his mouth to speak - and cannot find any words. A proclamation is a formal document, carefully constructed and rendered - and he has no idea how to begin. His mouth suddenly dry, he tries again, "Gentlemen, I come before you…"

Somewhere in the distance, a door opens, and they can hear a rhythmic thud of collective footsteps. Glances are exchanged: it sounds like a detachment of guards - what the hell is going on? Is Norfolk going to claim the Crown itself - and the soldiers are coming to arrest them all?

But it seems not. The Captain leads his men into the assembly, "Stand aside! Make way for her Majesty the Queen!"

There is no sound other than that of shuffling feet as the gathered Lords comply, wondering who the hell is going to enter by that door.

Moving with precision, the guards form up ranks upon either side of the door, forming a red-walled corridor through which a small child, dressed in mourning, makes her solemn way forth. Behind her comes an entirely unexpected party, as the Dowager Queen Anne enters the room, followed by the despised Cromwell, and the hitherto-missing Rich. Behind them follows Lady Bryan, and all of both Queens' ladies. It is a grand show, to be sure - but only such a show is likely to prevent the failure of what is to follow.

With the assistance of two of her own ladies, Elizabeth mounts the dais, and seats herself upon the high throne vacated by her late father. Flanked by two guards and her assembled women, she makes a remarkably impressive sight for one so small, and the gathering of those who have come with her serves to unnerve the men before her considerably - though Norfolk's expression is quite the picture as he finds himself blocked from his desire by a rank of soldiers armed with ceremonial halberds.

Standing to her daughter's right hand, Anne turns to Cromwell, who hands her the sealed proclamation, which sends a weird groaning sound through the assembled council. Of all outcomes, none were apparently expecting this.

Refusing to express the smugness that she is undoubtedly feeling, Anne unfurls the vellum and begins to recite the words upon it.

"Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith, and in the earth supreme head of the Church of England and Ireland: to all our most loving, faithful, and obedient subjects, greeting.

"Because it hath pleased Almighty God by calling to his mercy out of this mortal life, to our great grief, the most excellent high and mighty prince, King Henry VIII of most noble and famous memory, late King of England, France, and Ireland (whose soul God have), to dispose and bestow upon us as the only right heir by blood and lawful succession the crown of the foresaid kingdoms of England, France, and Ireland, with all manner titles and rights thereunto in anywise appertaining, we do publish and give knowledge by this our proclamation to all manner of people being natural subjects of every the said kingdoms, that from the beginning of the 5th day of this month of April, at which time our said Liege Lord and King departed from this mortal life, they be discharged of all bonds and duties of subjection towards our said King, and be from the same time in nature and law bound only to us as to their only sovereign lady and Queen: wherewith we do by this our proclamation straightly charge and ally them to us, promising on our part no less love and care towards their preservation than hath been in any of our progenitors, and not doubting on their part but they will observe the duty which belongeth to natural, good, and true loving subjects.

"In deference to our most tender years, we do publish and command that the rule of England shall be laid in the care of our gracious and noble mother, Queen Anne, until such time as we are - by God's Grace - of sufficient age to rule our subjects as their true and most sovereign prince.

"And further we straightly charge and command all manner our said subjects of every degree, to keep themselves in our peace, and not to attempt upon any pretence the breach, alteration, or change of any order or usage presently established within this our realm; upon pain of our indignation and the perils and punishment which thereto in anywise may belong."

Before anyone can protest, the Captain steps forth, "God save Queen Elizabeth!"

Any mumblings of the councillors are drowned out by the guards, who stand rigidly to attention, "God Save the Queen!"

"I shall advise you of her Majesty's wishes over the formation of her new Council." Anne says, very calmly, "Until then, Good day."

Perhaps, had there been no guards, it might have been different - but in the face of a rank of halberds that offer function as much as form, the assembled councillors accept the dismissal, and disperse.

"That was too easy." Rich mutters, looking distinctly nervous - he has not missed the vicious looks being directed at him by those he abandoned in favour of the Queen.

"This, Mr Rich?" Anne says, turning to him, "Yes - this was easy; but I expected nothing less, for the presence of the guards stilled their tongues and stayed their hands. The true battle is yet to begin: we must continue to move quickly to avoid being outflanked. I shall present the Acts to them all before the day is out, and, while they are squabbling over their validity, you and Mr Cromwell shall gain the support of Parliament from under their noses, and silence them once and for all."

She watches the door through which a large group of discomfited men have just passed, and sighs inwardly. She has set her daughter upon the throne of England. Now, she has to keep her there.


	10. Backlash

PART TWO

**REGENT**

* * *

Chapter 10

_Backlash_

* * *

The atmosphere in Norfolk's apartment is fiery, to say the least.

"Damn her for an impulsive, stupid whore!" the Duke paces back and forth, enraged that his grand announcement of his Protectorship has been so humiliatingly stalled, "There is no validity in her proclamation - how _dare_ she presume to have precedence over me!"

Audley is sitting in a chair nearby, wringing his hands nervously. He has worked with both of the men who stood with the Queen as she snatched the protectorship from her uncle, and recognised the work of each. Cromwell was the author, that he knows for certain, but there are certain turns of phrase that he recognises as being quite personal to Rich. Their lawyer has, it seems, switched sides - but then, he has always been an untrustworthy toad, so that is no surprise. What _is_ problematic is that, collectively they are a formidable force, with matchless skill in the drafting and interpretation of the Law. That the pair of them are now working for Queen Anne places him in a far more difficult position - for he cannot match them in intellect if they are together. It would be hard enough to match Rich - and almost beyond him to match Cromwell. But both of them? No - he would be utterly outflanked.

Wiltshire is sitting alongside the window, a dark, dangerous look in his eyes, but he says nothing; waiting for Norfolk's temper to blow over. Until that happens, there shall be no progress. Nearby, Rochford gulps at a cup of claret, and equally keeps his counsel.

"Well, Audley?" Norfolk rounds upon the now-unemployed Lord Chancellor, "What do we do? How do we overturn this nonsensical charade?"

"Er…without seeing the documents that have been prepared to support the proclamation," Audley stammers, "I cannot say with any certainty. Once we have those, then we shall know what has been done, and what can be done to overcome it."

"Then _get_ them!" the Duke demands, furiously. Without another word, Audley flees.

"What does that black rook Cromwell expect to gain from this?" Rochford asks, speculatively, "The keeping of his head, obviously, but what else?"

"Power, you dolt." Norfolk snaps back, "What else would he demand? Other than riches for himself and his vile progeny? He has control of my niece, and control of my great-niece - and now a man of no account, of the lowest birth, rules this Kingdom! It is not to be countenanced!"

"Then he must be removed." Wiltshire says, with unnerving calmness, "Of all the men at the Council table, he is least worthy to be there - that is true; but he is cunning, and clever. That he has wormed his way back into my daughter's favour is surprising, but less so if it appears that it was he who was responsible for the removal of Elizabeth from her home. Control the child, and you control the mother."

"Then we have him removed." Rochford says, at once, "Arrested, attainted and to the block. Anne shall do as you command, father - she is your daughter and therefore must obey now that she is no longer her husband's possession."

"If she does not," Norfolk growls, "then I shall have him run through, damn him. A guttersnipe such as he deserves to be slaughtered like a hog in the gutter; but Rich is mine. I shall have him put to the instruments until he is driven insane, and then send him to the gallows a howling madman. I refuse to be so betrayed."

"We cannot be seen to act unlawfully." Wiltshire muses, "Regardless of the true legality of her act, to any who is not versed in statutes, she has acted within the law - thus if we act against her, she can plausibly claim us to be attempting to usurp her daughter's throne in favour of another candidate."

"There _is_ no other candidate!"

"On the contrary, there are two - the Lady Mary, and the King's bastard. Her illegitimacy is questionable to some, perhaps, and his is absolutely true: but what is to prevent Anne from claiming that we are attempting to remove Elizabeth in favour of one or the other - freshly legitimised - in exchange for their favour? No, we must be more subtle than that. Much as it infuriates me to agree with Audley, we have no alternative but to wait for the documents that Anne must have to support the words that she spoke this morning. Then we shall declare them invalid, and the council shall refuse to accept her claim to be regent. Thus I shall have the proclamation redrafted, and all shall be made right again."

"And Parliament?" Rochford prompts.

"If she can ignore them, then so can I."

* * *

The King's private apartments are still full of his possessions - including the great wardrobe that holds an enormous array of the finest furs, velvets, silks and satins, and a collection of jewels that dwarfs those that Anne possesses. She was rarely permitted to enter these hallowed chambers when they ruled - though she visited frequently before her marriage, when he fought so hard to capture her. Behind her, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich are equally astounded, for they have never been permitted to enter these chambers either; and, for all their wealth, neither have the means to own such a wardrobe as this.

Her eyes sweep across all before her, the fine carpets, the rich wood wainscoting and furniture - and magnificently colourful tapestries from the great weavers of Flanders that each cost a small fortune to commission. Beside her, Elizabeth is equally entranced by such _richesse_ , for even though she lived a highly privileged existence at her various houses outside London, she has never seen such luxury as this.

"Is this mine, Mama?" she asks, wide eyed.

"Yes, my precious," Anne whispers, softly, "yes, it is yours. Mr Cromwell," she turns, "would you be so kind as to arrange the removal of my late husband's personal effects to a chamber suitable for their safe keeping in accordance with the King's will - assuming there is such a document?"

Cromwell bows, "I shall see to it at once, Majesty. Is it your wish to occupy these apartments alongside her Majesty?"

"Yes, Mama!" Elizabeth says, at once, "Please stay with me!" Her voice is excited, but there is also a faint tinge of fear. She is barely more than babe - and her life has changed forever. What child would not want their mother nearby?

"Of course, my darling. Shall you appoint Lady Bryan as your new Chief Gentlewoman of your Privy Chamber? It is a most prestigious position, and she has been most good to you."

"What does that mean?" Elizabeth asks, keenly.

"It means that she shall be your most important personal attendant, for she cannot be your governess forever, as we must appoint a tutor for you. Thus she can remain at your side, and look after you as she has always done. Would you like that?"

Now that she has the assurance that her mother shall not leave, her excitement is tempered a little, and her answer is rather more sober, "I should like that very much, Mama."

The sound of a knock at the door causes everyone to turn, "Your Majesties," one of Anne's Ushers is standing at the door, "Mr Thomas Audley is without, seeking an audience."

Anne turns to Cromwell, who nods, "He has come to view the Acts, Majesty." He has anticipated this - though perhaps not as soon after the announcement as this, and the final draft - from which the fair copy was made - is easily secured. The last thing he wants is Norfolk getting his hands on the originals.

She nods, "Show him in, Matthew."

Audley is nervous, and not merely of the woman he is approaching. Norfolk shall expect him to now find a means to overturn the hard work of two highly talented legal minds - and he is not at all sure that he can do it. The chances of Cromwell making such an error is small enough as it is, but if the drafts have been reviewed by Rich as well, then small becomes impossible. How he shall find a way to crack that legal edifice and break it down, he has no idea.

"Majesty, I have come on behalf of his Grace of Norfolk. He asks that he be allowed to examine the legal documents pertaining to the proclamation of her Majesty Queen Elizabeth."

"I am sure that he does, Mr Audley." she smiles at him, "Please pass him my assurances that the Council shall be gathered after the midday meal on the morrow to view and discuss the Acts of Parliament that secure her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's right to rule, authorise her Coronation in view of her tender years, and authorise me to rule as Regent in her stead. If he can present himself alongside the rest of my late Lord's Council in her Majesty's Presence Chamber at the hour of two past noon, he shall be granted the opportunity to consider the legal basis upon which I have proclaimed my daughter Queen of England. In the meantime, it is my intention to supervise her Majesty's move into her new quarters."

Behind Audley, Cromwell's eyebrows rise - he had assumed that she would acquiesce to her uncle's order, but instead she has defied him. Politely, yes, but nonetheless it is a degree of defiance that is guaranteed to infuriate Norfolk; and with their position as precarious as it is, he is suddenly very nervous. She cannot afford to be so reckless…

Or can she? Her reasoning for the delay is so light, so - _womanish_ \- that he wonders whether the Councillors shall think her to be foolish and trivial. If they do, then they shall assemble on the morrow assuming that she shall simper and plead with them for their assistance and support - and thus they can dictate terms that shall remove all of her power, and place it in their own hands. Once, of course, they have stopped squabbling over who shall lead them.

Suddenly, he is astonished at her artifice, and her cleverness. Far from being dictated to by her feelings, she is using that assumption of womanish weakness as a weapon. God above, if they can hold the Kingdom, then she shall prove to be a magnificent ruler - and demonstrate to all men that her daughter is _not_ a poor substitute for a boy.

Nervous as hell, Audley nods, bows and retreats; and Anne lets out a long sigh, "Do you think I deceived him?"

Cromwell nods, "I should say so. You deceived _me_ for a brief while, Majesty."

Beside him, Rich looks very embarrassed.

"Much as it grieves me to have to do it, if I must play a mewling damsel to protect us, then I shall do it. My great hope is that I have given you time to secure Parliament for Elizabeth." She does not mention such acceptance for herself - perhaps she assumes it shall be forthcoming. Does she know how unpopular she is outside the palace? Perhaps she does - or perhaps not. God, another hurdle to be overcome…

"We shall make haste, Majesty." Cromwell bows, prompting Rich to hastily do likewise, "I know that the leading knights of the shire are present in London at this time, and they are the men to convince."

Anne nods. While Cromwell is despised within the Palace, she is not unaware of his efforts to improve the lot of those who are not so fortunate as to live in such privilege. Consequently, he is regarded with far greater respect by the men of St Stephen's than the Lords of the Council - and even Rich commands a degree of regard. If they cannot carry the day, then no one can.

Perhaps it is time for her to set her hostility aside - and begin to find a way to trust them.

* * *

The barge is one of the larger vessels, manned with sixteen oars, and a closed cabin for the passengers with velvet-upholstered benches along each bulkhead. Despite the ease with which they worked last night, the two men are not entirely comfortable in each others' presence, and thus they seat themselves on opposite sides of the cabin.

As the oarsmen push away from the privy bridge, Cromwell can see that Rich is looking rather resentful - and he cannot fathom why. Surely he is not regretting his choice to abandon Norfolk for the Queen? No - that would be madness if the threats he overheard were serious in their intent. Besides, knowing the Duke and his ways, Cromwell is quite convinced that, whatever punishment might have been awaiting Rich once he had outlived his usefulness, it shall be infinitely crueller now. Rich has many faults - but he is too shrewd to turn back to the ones who would destroy him. It must be something else.

"If we are to serve her Majesty, Mr Rich, we must do so to the best of our ability, and with absolute loyalty. Thus, if we are to earn her Majesty's trust, we must begin by earning one another's. The next few days shall be the most dangerous we have ever encountered. I cannot meet that danger if I cannot trust those with whom I am working - and I have no doubt that you face an equal challenge."

For a moment, it seems that Rich is not willing to respond, but instead sighs rather, and turns to Cromwell, "Did you know?"

"Know what?" Cromwell is bemused.

"That the Queen would behave towards Audley as she did." He looks embarrassed again - he had clearly been equally fooled by her behaviour.

"Not at first." Cromwell admits, "She did not confide in me that she would speak as she did - but as Audley's arrival was sooner than we expected, there was no time for me to advise her, and thus she extemporised. At the outset, I was as shocked as you. It was only as she continued to speak that I began to divine her intention."

Rich considers his admission awhile, "It seems that things shall be very different once we have secured the regency."

"Assuming that we can." Cromwell sighs, "Even the lack of a Stephen of Blois may not protect her. Or us. If we cannot hold the centre, then the country shall crumble into bloody civil war - just as it did for Matilda. We _must_ carry the day with Parliament, or we are lost. Norfolk's power lies in his lineage and pedigree - benefits that you and I entirely lack. Thus we must do all that we can to bolster the Queen's legitimacy and right to rule. That we have the Succession to the Crown Act to aid us is helpful - for it enforces Elizabeth's succession in law."

"All who sit in the chapel of St Stephen have sworn the oath to the Succession, so we have that upon our side, too." Rich adds, more enthusiastic now, "Besides, they approved the Act that made it law. If they refuse to accept the accession of the Queen Elizabeth now, then they commit treason. While that might not be an impediment to Norfolk - as he sees himself as Lord Protector and thus does not deny the succession - it may well be the precise sticking point that shall secure the Parliamentary support that we need."

Cromwell nods, "I dispatched a messenger to Westminster yesterday seeking to meet with the commons as they are in session - but you are more frequently there than I - who would you recommend that we approach ahead of the gathering?"

"The Speaker, for choice - Humphrey Wingfield - he has links to Suffolk, but he is a loyal servant to the Kingdom. I think he shall aid us. Well," he looks embarrassed again, "he shall aid _you_. He despises me."

It seems that Rich has rather a large number of people to convince that he is no longer unworthy of trust.

Cromwell regards him awhile, as he transfers his attention from their fading conversation to the passing banks of the river, where fields stretch back towards woodland in the distance. As a man who has been intent upon advancement at any cost, Rich has truly earned that reputation. While he, Cromwell, has hardly won himself friends, his efforts have been rather more in the service of the Kingdom, and the King - efforts of a practical bent that improve the efficiency of government.

Or perhaps that is what he tells himself, because - at the most base level - they are not that different. He has never been able to find it in himself to like the man who sits opposite, but now he wonders if it is because, in Rich's unsavoury activities, he sees a reflection of his own.

He cannot afford to do so any longer - not if he wishes to survive. Throwing in their lot with Queen Anne has burned too many bridges for him to retreat should her claim to the Regency of England miscarry. Their only hope of keeping their heads should that occur would be to flee England entirely. Norfolk's plan for them both even had they chosen to ally with him makes that fate horribly clear. He wonders if he looks as pensive as Rich does. While he knows that he has far more courage than his colleague, he is hardly unafraid of what lies ahead - even if they carry the day with Parliament.

The river is not too high as they approach the towering bulk of London Bridge, and thus the waters are not rushing too much between the starlings upon which the piers are built, so the barge can pass under in safety. While he has prepared the ground for this, Cromwell remains uncertain that the men who have gathered shall accept Queen Anne as a Regent in preference to a Lord Protector. Queen Katherine was certainly an effective Regent - but she was accepted as such only because the King was overseas, and would return. His greatest bargaining tool is the respect in which they hold him - which could not be more different to the loathing he must deal with in the Palace - for he shall present himself as Queen Anne's foremost adviser, which shall offer them a greater influence with the Monarch than they have ever held before. If _that_ fails to win them, then he has no understanding of human nature.

"What do you intend to offer them?" Rich asks, as though he has overheard Cromwell's thoughts, "They shall not grant their aid if there is nothing in return for it."

"What would you suggest?" He is keen to know if they are thinking along the same lines.

"Greater influence with the Queen, I think. Henry was a law unto himself at times, and look where that has led us. I think it would better for all if there were a closer co-operation between the Queen and her Parliament. The Council is powerful - but who amongst them cares so much as a fig for any but themselves and their privileges?" He pauses, and continues, clearly warming up to the subject, "We know that her Majesty the Regent is not loved by the people of England, and thus could find herself isolated should the people grant their love to another - such as Mary."

Cromwell is smiling now, "Indeed so. But - were we to give the people hope that their voices shall truly be heard, it is possible that they shall learn to love their Queen."

"Mother of the Realm." Rich finishes, mostly in jest.

"That is it - that is how we shall present her to the Commons." Cromwell leaps upon it, "We cannot pretend that she is a King in a gown, after all - so we shall create a maternal figure who shall nurture the Kingdom alongside the men of her Parliament. That is an excellent idea!"

Rich looks quite startled; he has never witnessed such open enthusiasm from his colleague before, "Do you think we can do it?" He asks.

"There is but one way to find out."

* * *

Humphrey Wingfield is a tall man of stocky build with a magnificently bushy beard and a bluff manner. Unlike many of those who meet in the choir stalls of the Chapel of St Stephen, he is fortunate to have a small chamber that serves as an office of sorts, and he busies himself clearing papers away from a brace of chairs and ushering his illustrious visitors to sit, "Forgive me, Sirs; while I knew that you were coming, I did not anticipate that you would come to see me beforehand."

Despite his courtesy, he is wary - particularly of Rich - but he says nothing of it as he seats himself, "I have spoken to the Commons of the grave tidings, sirs. What is to be done? I assume that is the reason for your visit."

Cromwell nods, "That is so, Mr Wingfield. Our concern is the protection of his Majesty's will as set out in the Act of Succession. Consequently, we seek the consent of Parliament to confirm legislation that shall secure the rights and inheritances of her Majesty Queen Elizabeth."

"And who is to be the Protector of the Realm?"

"Her Majesty the Dowager Queen Anne." Cromwell advises, blandly.

There is a rather unnerving silence.

"Queen Anne." Winfield repeats, with considerably less enthusiasm.

"Yes." Cromwell says, cheerfully.

"A woman."

"She is indeed." Rich agrees, with a bright smile that looks most strange given his reputation and character.

"You are proposing that England is ruled by a woman."

"That is so." Cromwell nods.

"England has never been ruled by a woman."

Cromwell fights not to roll his eyes - so many damned obvious statements, "There is always a first time, Mr Wingfield, and it is our wish that she do so with the full cooperation and involvement of the Commons. In view of the principle of starting as one means to continue, we are here to propose that - in exchange for approving the relevant Acts that shall underpin the structure of Her Majesty's rule, and her mother's Regency - the men of Parliament shall become a more formally constituted body of government, with equal standing to the men of her Majesty's Council."

Anne has not approved such an offer - but Cromwell knows that they cannot achieve the Parliamentary approval they need if they offer nothing in return. Besides, the transfer of some of the power to advise the Monarch from the Lords to people of ordinary stock such as himself is long overdue. The trick now is to ensure that the men of St Stephen's work with the Queen, rather than against her.

Wingfield considers Cromwell's words, and the pair watch him, a little nervously. That Elizabeth is now queen is not in doubt - for the King's Succession Act demands it - but whether they can win similar approval for Queen Anne to serve as Regent remains to be seen. If they cannot, then it shall be far, far harder to keep Norfolk at bay - and that shall be difficult enough as it is.

"Why not one of her Majesty's Lords?" he says, eventually.

"They are neither anointed nor crowned, Mr Wingfield. Queen Anne is both - our late Liege Lord set the crown of St Edward upon her head with his own hands, while Archbishop Cranmer anointed her. Thus she is more fit to rule in the eyes of God than one of the Lords of the Council. There is no requirement for a Lord Protector, for we have an anointed monarch to rule as regent until her Majesty Queen Elizabeth is of age. Additionally, she is the Queen's mother, and shall have a particular interest in maintaining the welfare and rights of her child."

"Or her own." Wingfield counters.

"Not if Parliament is granted the powers to act as a balancing weight. It is our intention to ensure that the Acts that shall be approved today shall offer appropriate checks and balances to ensure that the Queen Elizabeth shall rule the Kingdom in her own right from the day that she comes of age. Her Majesty Queen Anne has seen and approved these documents - and asks that you, as the representatives of her daughter's subjects, do likewise. If you do so, then it shall go some way towards preventing England from sinking once more into disastrous civil war that was only ended by the rise of the Queen Elizabeth's house."

"I see no such specifics listed here."

"That is the first task that shall be set before you." Cromwell answers, "The Acts do not preclude us from collectively forging an additional regulatory structure to establish the rights and privileges of Parliament alongside those of the Queen that you shall serve."

Now Wingfield looks interested, and Cromwell knows that he has found the prize that shall secure the approval they need. The vital thing now is to ensure that the men of Parliament do not over-reach themselves, and demand too much: but that is a battle for another day.

The debate takes nigh-on two hours, and - unsurprisingly - centres quite solidly upon the perception of Queen Anne as little better than a whore. Queen Katherine, of course, would have been able to navigate such a stream with far less difficulty - but the law that supports Elizabeth's succession, the oath they took to respect it, and the offer of a greater voice within the government of England are proving to be the clinching arguments, and even as the members rise to divide, it is clear to both Cromwell and Rich that their arguments have won the day, for the men standing to the right of the Speaker's chair in the Presbytery greatly outnumber those to the left.

"The ayes have it." Rich says, quietly, "Thank God for that. What would we have done had it been the noes?"

"Flee the country." Cromwell says, "That, or prepare for death, I think."

They have the approval of Parliament - and a written document to that effect shall be drawn up in the next hour. With that, as well as the Acts themselves, they can safely argue that any attempt to unseat Queen Anne shall be unlawful.

"Now we must find a way to present her to England." Rich says, "Mother of the Realm."

"Indeed so."

* * *

Lady Bryan is working her way through a long, long list of possessions that must be moved into the King's - now Queen's - apartments. How is it that her Majesty has accumulated such an enormous number of articles that she appears to be unable to live without?

Not that there is yet much in the way of room in those extensive chambers, of course. Most of the possessions here are those belonging to her late father. The Queen seems most excited by the sheer size of the apartments that are now hers to explore, and has not yet shown any apparent grief for the loss of the man who once occupied them. But she has seen little of her father in her short life, so perhaps he is too remote a figure for her to truly appreciate the bereavement.

Queen Anne is supervising the packing up of her late husband's possessions, intending to place them in secure storage while they attempt to find some form or other of Will. If they cannot, then it shall all pass to her, and Bryan assumes that they shall be sold off - though the Queen shall soften the blow of such a ghastly act by donating the proceeds to the poor. She is not fool enough to keep the money for herself. Not when she has all of England to win over.

"Where shall you sleep, my darling?" Anne asks Elizabeth, who is twirling upon the spot in the enormous bedchamber.

"Here, Mama!" she says, delightedly, "In the big, big bed - for I am the Queen!"

Anne smiles at her fondly, before wandering across to the great windows to look out across the fine ornamental gardens. In spite of his altogether less pleasant activities and predilections, Henry always appreciated beauty. That view, and the magnificence of the décor that surrounds her is evidence enough. How strange that he looked upon her and saw beauty - for she was the very opposite of all that the Court considered to be so. And he moved heaven and earth to make her his…

"Mama, why are you crying?"

Startled, Anne turns, blotting at her teary eyes as best she can with the back of her hand, "Forgive me, Elizabeth, I was thinking sad thoughts - but you are here now, and that makes me happier than anything in the world."

Taking her hand, Elizabeth leads her on yet another tour of the apartments - as though she has never seen them before. There is a substantial ante-chamber nearby that shall serve well as her own bedchamber - for despite its lesser status, it is nonetheless far better appointed than her previous bedchamber. Indeed, there is room not only for a child learning to govern a Kingdom, but also for her Regent - and sufficient space for them not to impinge upon one another's boundaries. Regardless of all, she is Queen only while her daughter cannot be. A time shall come when Elizabeth shall rule in her own right - and now she must do all that she can to ensure that the girl is prepared to do so.

So many boxes to fill…so much to remove. And then she must supervise the removal of her own possessions into her new home. Thank God they haven't been here long enough to warrant a removal to another Palace - that would be even more of an upheaval.

"Majesty." She turns to see Lady Rochford, whom she has tasked with overseeing the packing up of her rooms, "Lord Rochford is without, and wishes to speak with you."

Anne feels a small lurch of her stomach. Once, she would have assumed that he had come to spend time with her playing cards, or enjoying an evening's entertainment - but not now that he has allied with her uncle, "I shall see him in the outer Privy Chamber, Lady Rochford. Could you call in Lady Bryan to sit with the Queen?"

"Yes, Majesty." Jane curtseys, and withdraws to fetch Elizabeth's governess.

George is standing at the windows when she emerges, looking out at the fading daylight, "Father is angry, Anne."

She draws herself up, "And what is that to me, my Lord?" there is no doubt in her mind that he has been dispatched to demand concessions from her that shall favour his party.

"You're being ridiculous. You cannot rule this Kingdom - it is for men to do, and you know it."

What was it that Henry had once said? _Leave the greater things to my care_.

"Men shall aid me, George." She reminds him, calmly, "Capable, skilled men who understand the processes of government, and shall guide me as I carry the weight of England until Elizabeth is strong enough to bear it."

"What - Thomas Cromwell? He is a nobody - and you despise him! Why do you favour him now? What is he in comparison to men of means such as father, or Norfolk? No woman can rule - you know that to be so!"

"And does the law say so?" she retorts, "Where is the Salic law, George? What is there that demands that a woman cannot rule? Have there not been regents of my sex who ruled our neighbours until their children could assume their crowns? I am strong enough to do it, and so shall Elizabeth be - for we shall share that burden with a council of wise heads and a parliament of good men to speak for the people who send them. Elizabeth shall rule as God's anointed Queen, advised by the finest minds of England, whether they be burghers or lords."

He looks at her as though she has gone entirely mad, "You would be advised by _peasants_?"

"If they be of sufficient ability, then yes." Anne is not entirely sure that she would truly be so willing to overturn the natural order of things, or that a labourer would be able to do such a thing even if offered the opportunity - but George has annoyed her to such an extent that she is more than willing to antagonise him in return. Besides, the look upon Norfolk's face would be an utter picture…

"Then you are a fool, Anne - a true fool. Your very words prove you incapable of ruling this Kingdom, and the Acts that you present to us are hardly valid, are they? The King is dead, and you have not sought the authority of parliament - not that it would matter if you had. Pretend that you rule for today, sister - but know that, from tomorrow, there _shall_ be a Lord Protector, and it shall be Norfolk. Unless you can _prove_ that parliament has approved your actions, which I doubt, it shall be a simple matter to declare them invalid - and do not think that you shall remain here to interfere once our uncle is protector. Tomorrow you shall have your foolish declarations overturned, and shall depart for Blickling. And be grateful that it is not the Tower."

"George - do not do this. You could hold a place upon my council and work with me to bring your niece to her rightful inheritance."

"Do you know what is to be done? Not only are you to depart from the Palace, but Cromwell shall die a traitor, and as for his weasel accomplice - he shall be dragged behind a cart and whipped to Tyburn, for he shall no longer be capable of walking once he has been sufficiently racked. Our Uncle does not forgive such betrayals, and neither do we - I shall be pleased to see the end of such upstarts - and none shall show such effrontery as they ever again."

Anne stares at him, shocked. God above, has he truly been so seduced by the offer of even the crumbs of power that he would blithely speak of such cruelties as though they were nothing? And, worse, he cares nothing that she would be forever kept away from her own child. Norfolk would do it without hesitation, she knows that; while her father would happily join with him…but George, too?

So be it - her family wishes to discard her. Then she shall fight for her child, and drive them from her presence; such dangerous men cannot be allowed to put Elizabeth's entire future at risk. She wishes that she was not required to act so brutally - but she has no choice.

If she does not defeat Norfolk, then she is lost.


	11. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the Kudos and your comments, all of which are - as always - greatly appreciated. :-)

The privy chamber is warm with a large fire, and a large number of candles, while the soft conversation of a group of ladies comes through from one of the outer chambers. The remains of a meal shared by four people lie upon the table, and the conversation is quiet - but of great importance.

"What have I been required to offer in exchange for this?" Anne asks, looking carefully over the document that Wingfield has supplied. It sets out that the Acts have been debated, and voted upon, and that Parliament has endorsed the will of the Queen.

"Your late husband is well known to have disregarded the will of Parliament when the mood took him, Majesty." Cromwell advises, "There are men within those walls that are of excellent calibre - but lack the blood to warrant a presence within the Palace. They are representatives of your subjects, and offer a view of life in the shires that your Lords cannot hope to match - and we should not disregard them as King Henry did."

She nods, still reading, "So I am to give Parliament more rights and privileges?"

"Yes, Majesty."

"How much has been agreed of that?"

"Nothing as yet, Majesty." Rich says, "We have given assurances that an additional legal structure shall be established to set out those privileges, and yours. It shall be one of our first actions once we have settled matters over the succession and her Majesty's coronation."

"We must honour that commitment, Gentlemen." She says, firmly, looking up at them, "I am well aware that it was not beyond my late husband to ignore such commitments once they were made. I do not intend to repeat such behaviour."

"I think that it shall prove to be a worthwhile partnership for the nation, Majesty." Cromwell continues, "I appreciate that it challenges the principle of your divine right to rule - but it does not supersede it."

"See to it, Mr Cromwell. I appreciate the worth of my Commons, but I shall not diminish the rights and privileges of my daughter."

He nods. There is no surprise in that; pragmatic she may be - she must be if she is dealing with him - but there are still lines that cannot be crossed. The best approach shall be to increase Parliament's privileges slowly, so that they do not expect too much, and she does not demand too little. That shall be a true challenge, striking a balance between the Queen's expectations, and those of her Parliament. He rather relishes the thought of it.

At least they have the endorsement of St Stephen's - that, and the sealed Acts, are together a powerful armour that must withstand the darts and quarrels of jealous lords who wanted the Protectorship for themselves. He has no doubt that they are primarily keen upon that - for who amongst them truly cares about the welfare of the Kingdom or her poorer subjects? He knows from his own experiences that the lives of those who have neither land nor wealth means less than nothing to the privileged gentlemen who sit upon the King's council, and his attempts to alter that focus have never been entirely successful. Perhaps, if he can narrow that gulf between the two halves of society, Anne might see how things truly are, and the policies of the new Queen shall look beyond the petty privileges of a small group of jealous, self-interested lordlings. Even he has been infected by that snobbish contagion, and he knows he must eradicate it in himself as much as in the council.

From her seat, Anne regards Cromwell in the dubious light of the candles. He looks tired, and uncertain of his place. So far, he has done nothing to give her cause to regret accepting his aid, and even the scoundrel Rich appears to be exploring the outer boundaries of integrity. Of all the men at Court who might be of use to her reign, she is looking at two of the foremost, ahead even of her highest Lords. Thomas Cromwell in particular. He has proved himself to be a magnificent administrator throughout her husband's reign - and she needs his skill and wit to keep herself safe. Rich, on the other hand, is still too much of an unknown quantity. Brilliant he may be - but there is so much that he has done that leaves her uncertain of his honesty.

"Thank you Gentlemen - I think we have spoken enough of the future of the Realm. I am minded to play a game or two of chess, Mr Cromwell, would you care to join me?

He looks surprised - they have not done such a thing for more than a year - but he smiles, "I should like that very much, Majesty."

"Lady Rochford," Anne turns to her new-favoured Lady in Waiting, "Perhaps you could entertain us upon the virginals?"

She looks most pleased, for she is a capable musician with few opportunities to play, and moves across to the wall, where a beautifully decorated muselar stands. A gift from one of the Electors of northern Europe, it received a great deal of attention during the King's lifetime, for he had been a gifted player. Anne has some ability, but not to the same degree, and she prefers to listen to the instrument's rich tones - deeper and throatier than conventional virginals.

The song she plays is ancient: _Sumer is icumen in_ , but the tune is well known, and soothing as Anne sets out the pieces on the chessboard. After days of uncertainty, and worry, it is a pleasant end to the day, and she had forgotten the pleasure of the game in the midst attempting to keep her footing as all threatened to crumble beneath her. She has offered Cromwell the choice of left hand or right, and he has picked the black piece she was holding, thus she shall make the first move.

" _Sumer is icumen in,_

_Llhude sing cuccu!_

_Groweth sed, and bloweth med,_

_And springth the wude nu -_

_Sing cuccu!_

_"Awe bleteth after lomb,_

_Louth after calve cu;_

_Bull sterteth, bucke verteth,_

_Murie sing cucu!_

_"Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:_

_Ne swike thu naver nu;_

_Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,_

_Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu_!"

Jane's voice is a sweet soprano, and her voice mingles well with the soft tones of the muselar as she sings the ancient words. Advancing her knight, Anne smiles to herself - tomorrow shall be a hard day, but for now, she is content. Damn - Cromwell has castled…

Behind her, Jane moves on to another ballad, but this time a different voice joins her accompaniment, as Rich finally finds some means to involve himself in the peace of the evening other than sitting dully in a chair and sipping claret,

" _My beloved spake, and said unto me,_

_Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away._

_For, lo, the winter is past,_

_The rain is over and gone;_

_The flowers appear on the earth;_

_The time of singing of birds is come,_

_And the voice of the turtle is held in our land_

_The fig tree ripeneth her green figs,_

_And the vines are in blossom,_

_They give forth their fragrance,_

_Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away_."

No one has heard him sing before - as he has never been given the opportunity, but again his low tenor works well with the instrument, and it looks as though the pair of them shall be more than capable of providing a pleasant musical accompaniment to the game. Anne looks up to see that Cromwell is equally surprised, but not so startled that he has lost focus upon his strategy. Smiling a little smugly, he moves his queen into position, "Checkmate, Majesty."

She pulls a sulky face, "In that case, please advise the Solicitor General that he is not allowed to sing in future."

Cromwell's smile widens, "As you wish, Majesty - I shall draft a law to that effect in the morning."

Three games later, he looks up at her again, "You are not concentrating, Majesty. I am finding this far too easy."

"Forgive me, Mr Cromwell - I have much to think about."

"About tomorrow." It is not a question.

"About tomorrow." She confirms, needlessly, "Regardless of all that we have done - we are barely further forward than we were upon the day that the news of Henry's death was delivered to the Palace. His corpse lies within a mouldering bow-basket in a cellar, with no plans for his funeral, while those who served him squabble amongst themselves to determine who shall seize power during the years that his daughter and heir is too young to rule. Perhaps they may even steal her crown for themselves - and then what shall become of her?"

Cromwell sits back from the table, "We cannot see into the future, Majesty. All that we can do is prepare for it and do the best that we can to protect her Majesty's rights. None of the men of the council can refute the laws that we have made, for they bear not only the great seal, which is still extant, but also the endorsement of Parliament. That second assurance is not necessary - but it shall serve to convince those who are not yet decided which faction they shall support."

“To whom can we look?”

Her question brings Rich back to the table from his vantage point near the muselar, as he delights in political speculation as much as Cromwell does, "Sussex, I think. He has always had reformist intentions - and he would look to any who seek further reform."

Anne nods, as Cromwell continues, "Russell, Petre and Gage are likely to be less willing - but they are not close to Norfolk, and may look to you as a stronger party given the laws we have enacted."

"Cranmer is a certainty, and Southampton shall also bow to the requirements of the law." Rich agrees, "Though Baker, Brown and Lord Sandys may require additional persuasion."

"Thus we must be wary of Sir Anthony Wingfield and Bishop Tunstall - they are both likely to side against you, on the sole basis that…" Cromwell struggles to find an appropriate form of words to use.

"That I am me?" Anne finishes.

"Forgive me, Majesty." He looks a little embarrassed.

"What of Suffolk?" Rich asks, "He is hardly a friend to Norfolk, but then again, he is equally no friend to us."

"If we hold a majority upon the Council, gentlemen," Anne answers, "There shall be little that he can say or do."

Cromwell looks a little worried, "That depends very much upon whether we can convince Gage, Petre and Russell to side with us. If they are to look to Norfolk, then they shall hold a majority over us."

"I think it unlikely." Rich disagrees, "As you said, they respect the will of Parliament to a degree that Norfolk does not. Besides, they shall almost certainly think that you shall be easier to browbeat than the Duke."

"Then they shall be thoroughly incorrect in that assumption." Anne says, coldly, "My uncle has no wish to protect Elizabeth's rights - not when he can become the power behind her throne. Family or no, I have endured his attempts to use me for his own ends, and I will not - _will not_ \- permit him to do the same to my child."

Cromwell rises from his chair and bows deeply, "As I live and breathe, Majesty, I swear to you upon my very life that I shall stand at your side to ensure that shall not happen."

She smiles then, "For indeed, your very life depends upon it."

"That, too." He answers, a small smile of his own curling his lips.

* * *

A squeal of laughter awakens Anne from a restless sleep, and she turns over at the sound of Elizabeth's mirth as she flees hither and thither in her enormous bedchamber, while Lady Bryan struggles to persuade her to complete her ablutions and prepare to dress.

She smiles at the joy of her child, taking pleasure in that brief moment of chaotic disorder that is Elizabeth's only moment of freedom in the day. In the next hour, she shall be enclosed in stays, petticoats and a firm stomacher - and she shall be expected to conduct herself as a woman grown. Such is the way of things for a high-born girl; it was no different for her when she was of such an age. Oh, to be so carefree…

But she is not. Nor shall Elizabeth be if they prevail today. Not only must she secure her daughter's throne, but she must organise a coronation, bury her late husband before his remains become too foul to approach, appoint a council that shall not oust her…so much to be done…and the danger she faces so great…

_As I live and breathe, Majesty, I swear to you upon my very life that I shall stand at your side…_

No - she does not face this mountainous challenge alone: base-born he may be, but Thomas Cromwell has never lacked for talent, and his loyalty to those he serves is well known - did he not remain Wolsey's man to the last? Only after the Cardinal was dead did he look to other means to remain at court; and his loyalty to the King was unimpeachable.

Now she has that loyalty, as does Elizabeth - but can loyalty be sufficient to overcome the forces ranged against them? Even with the altogether more dubious support of Rich, they are but three - against a Council of sixteen. Oh God…can they really do this?

Margery Horsman enters her bedchamber, "Majesty, I have selected some gowns for your consideration, and hot water has been brought up for your toilette."

Anne sits up in bed, "Thank you, Madge, please bring them through, I shall make my choice."

She emerges into the larger privy chamber dressed in a heavy gown of rich crimson damask over a flower-patterned kirtle, her hair enclosed in a pearl-rimmed French hood. Elizabeth is already present, dressed in red-gold satin that beautifully complements the red-gold hair that proclaims her to be of the Tudor line, "Mama! Look at my dress, is it not wonderful?"

"It is most beautiful, my dear one, as are you." She smiles, accepting a kiss from her daughter, "What is set for you to break your fast?"

Elizabeth continues to chatter about how large her bed is, the view from the great windows, and how excited she is to be living with her mother at last, as she sips at her small ale and lifts a slice of the finest manchet bread onto her plate. The display of victuals is, to Anne, quite shocking in its sheer quantity - her own morning meal would have been less than half the amount. Two great loaves of the finest quality bread, slabs of cheese with quince paste and sugared fruits, hot mutton chops, cold cuts, a game pie, buttered eggs, honey…was this set before Henry every morning? God above, no wonder he was of such girth.

She smiles at her daughter as Elizabeth departs to a small chamber that she has already set aside as her personal schoolroom, where Lady Bryan shall continue her education until a tutor has been engaged for her. The mountains of victuals that still remain are shocking, and she turns to Margery, "Madge, could you advise the Kitchens that such a large meal is not required any longer in the mornings? Just the bread and honey, some cold cuts and cheese from tomorrow, I think. Perhaps it is nervousness - but the sight of such waste is rather nauseating."

"Yes, Majesty." Margery bobs a curtsey, "Matthew is without, he says that Mr Cromwell seeks an audience."

Anne sighs: business again, "Ask Matthew to show him in."

"Yes, Majesty."

Cromwell's eyes widen at the sheer quantity of victuals that have been left by the Queen and her daughter, "I can only assume that the kitchens served you as though you were the King."

Anne nods, "Please - if you have not eaten, there is plenty."

"Thank you, no; but rest assured that the victuals shall not be wasted - what is left shall be returned to the kitchens to be distributed to the poor."

Anne shudders at the thought - to be so destitute that one looks upon uneaten leavings for sustenance.

"Can we not do better than that?" she asks, "Surely it is better to grant people dignity than throw them crumbs from our own tables? I know that you have attempted to bring in such measures, have you not?"

"I have indeed, Majesty - but the council always seems to have more pressing matters of concern, and thus I have not achieved as much as I would have wished."

"Then, as soon as we are secure, I shall establish a commission to investigate how things lie in the shires." She muses, "Without that knowledge, we shall do little but flounder in the dark. I have seen so little of life that is not sweet and comfortable. You, however, have seen much of it - and I suspect that your intention shall be to improve the lot of the poor, shall it not?"

He nods, "I fear that I have become habituated to the life of ease and privilege, Majesty; consequently, I think that you are right - we must know the state of the country over which you shall rule as Regent."

Anne regards him, "Is that why you did not ensure that the monies generated by the closure of the smaller monastic houses were made available for charitable and educational purposes?"

Cromwell looks ashamed, "I was given little alternative, Majesty. The sheer degree of profligacy that left us obliged to find the funds to meet our debts rendered me unable to use them for anything else. If you wish to create those charitable institutions, and schools, then there must be a commensurate reduction in the expenses of the Court. I cannot release funds that are needed to pay for fans." He looks at her with mildly humorous accusation, and now she turns a fetching shade of red.

"We are not here to discuss such matters yet, Majesty." Cromwell says, in a more businesslike tone, "We must meet with the council this afternoon - and if we do not win them over, then such plans shall falter before they have even fledged."

"Then be seated, Mr Cromwell; let us set to work and ensure that we are ready for them."

* * *

"I have the remaining papers you requested, Mr Secretary." Sadleir hands Cromwell a thickly stuffed leather wallet, "I think that Mr Rich was accumulating the remainder."

"Thank you, Ralph." He looks up as Rich approaches, an equally crammed wallet under his arm, "Are you ready?"

"I think so." Rich says, "I have assembled some notes further to your discussions with her Majesty this morning; everything that I can think of in relation to the work we undertook to establish the Succession Act, and the oath in support of it." He looks a little uncomfortable, "I think I would be wise to say as little as possible this afternoon. My reputation shall not aid you, I fear."

Cromwell is relieved at his admission, as his own concerns about how Rich is regarded by the rest of the council have been present from the beginning, but he was has not been sure how to broach the matter. Even though Rich has sworn his loyalty to Queen Anne, and Cromwell knows well that he has always been loyal to the King, even if not to anyone else; nonetheless that dark shadow of perjury and betrayal still hangs over the Solicitor General's head, not to mention the small matter of his abandonment of Norfolk. Rather than provoke his colleague with an outright agreement, he compromises instead, "I do not think we should disregard your contribution completely, Mr Rich; if we are both facing the council, it shall serve you equally poorly if you are not permitted to speak. It would not surprise me if you are obliged to defend yourself from accusations by our fellow councillors."

"Thank you, Mr Secretary." Rich pauses, "Might it be better if we sit apart from one another - or would it be more suitable if we sit together?"

"I think there is little point in pretending that we are not allied with one another - for we were together when her Majesty proclaimed the Queen Elizabeth, were we not? No - her Majesty the Queen Regent has decided that she shall sit at the head of the table, I shall sit at her right, and you at her left - though it shall be emphasised at this time that we are present in an administrative capacity only: Legal advisers, if you will."

He notices a sudden flicker of interest, "Does she intend to appoint us to more prominent Court positions?"

Ah - not everything has changed, then.

"At this time, I cannot say - for she has not. For myself, I am content to serve as I do now - though I would be a liar if I said that I did not hope for advancement should her Majesty be so minded as to elevate me."

As they did when Anne entered to proclaim her daughter, they escort her alongside a pair of red-clad guards with sharp halberds at the ready. Walking a pair of paces in front, Anne is not surprised to find that the former council have gathered - or that Norfolk is quite determinedly standing at the head of the table.

Best to make matters clear from the first.

She stands calmly, and waits for him to move, knowing that he shall not do so willingly. Instead, he attempts as best he can to ignore her presence, while the assembled lords mutter nervously amongst themselves. Well - most of them: her father's expression is most unpleasant, while George regards her with that particularly sulky expression he used to use when he thought she had received preferential treatment to him in the doling out of sweetmeats at the supper table.

If Norfolk intends a stand-off, however, he is sorely mistaken; as Palmer steps forth and batters the butt of his halberd to the floorboards with a loud thud, "Stand aside for Her Majesty the Queen Regent!"

His is a voice that can be heard across wide courtyards, and brooks no disagreement. To his mind, he serves the Crown, and thus the wearer of it - and as Queen Anne has been both anointed and crowned, so he is obliged to guard her: it is God's will, and he has sworn an oath upon it.

Shocked, Norfolk flinches at the volume - and seems minded for a moment to ignore the order, but the presence of guards, and weapons, persuades him otherwise, and he grudgingly steps aside. Even as he does so, all know that he has given ground that he cannot afford to relinquish. It shall be harder now for him to browbeat his niece, as she has publicly humiliated him with a display of her own ascendancy.

"Thank you, your Grace." She smiles winningly as she moves to the head of the table, "Gentlemen, if you could kindly relinquish your chairs for my advisers." Her smile, now iron hard, turns upon her father and brother, who had assumed those high-ranking places either side of the head of the table with the same sense of misplaced entitlement as her uncle.

After Norfolk's capitulation, Wiltshire seems unwilling to risk equal embarrassment by arguing, but he feels it nonetheless, as he is obliged to usher everyone else downwards by two chairs - so that the upstart Cromwell can sit in the seat that he considers to be his, while Norfolk sits between him and the Secretary. Were the situation less tense, Anne would laugh at his sour expression, for he resembles a sulking child. Rochford is little better - and he only has to move down by one seat.

"Our first order of business," she begins, "is to consider, and endorse, the Acts of Parliament supporting the rights of Queen Elizabeth, and the Regency. As you can see, the Acts bear the Great Seal, which is as yet unbroken, and therefore still valid, even if his Majesty is no longer alive. Furthermore, the Acts have been debated and approved by Parliament, as you can see from the sealed document provided by the Speaker, Mr Wingfield."

If Norfolk intends to dispute her claim, he is prevented by the older, and highly respected William Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southampton, who rises to his feet, "Your Majesty, having seen these documents, and the seal upon them, it is clear to me that they are indeed valid - for, as you say, the Great Seal of the late King has not yet been broken, and thus remains a valid expression of Royal will until such time as it is indeed destroyed. Furthermore, the presence of this written endorsement by Parliament adds additional legitimacy to these documents. That her Majesty is Queen is not in doubt - for that was his late Majesty's will and set out in law. As an anointed and crowned Queen, I see no lawful or valid reason to deny your Majesty the Regency - supported, of course, by a suitably populated Council of learned men to advise you."

Anne looks at the older man, pleasantly surprised by his words. She can see from the look upon Cromwell's face that he is equally surprised, and has not spoken to Southampton beforehand. Surely it cannot be so easy as this?

Then Bishop Tunstall rises, and she knows that it shall not be.

"Gentlemen, I find it strange that we are even considering placing the rule of our Kingdom into the hands of a child, and a woman. No woman has ever ruled England - and I fear that it is a burden to which the fairer sex is unsuited. Surely it is better to appoint a Lord Protector, for the work of ruling a Kingdom belongs to men. The accession of a girl to the Throne is, as has already been said, set out in law - but nonetheless, a woman cannot rule this kingdom - a Protector must be appointed, while the Queen marries, and bears a son to rule in her stead."

And so the argument moves back and forth, like a slow, grumbling game of tennis that was once such a great pastime of her late husband. The strength of the laws they have prepared are not in doubt - all rests entirely upon the presumption that a woman cannot rule over men. It is an abomination against nature, it is against the will of God…and another ten stupid reasons that seem to rest solely upon one assumption: that only men can bear the weight of authority, and none shall submit to a woman.

To their credit, both Cromwell and Rich argue the point that there is no law in England that claims such a thing. There is no Salic law, and thus a woman is not barred from the throne - and there have been many examples in Europe where women have ruled during a minority in the absence of their husbands - but still there is that one same stumbling block. Anne is female, and so is Elizabeth. She is naught but a mere woman.

"I am no 'mere' woman." She says, suddenly, stopping the argument in its tracks, "I am _more_ than a 'mere' woman: for I have been anointed, and his late Majesty set St Edward's Crown upon my head with his own hands. That, Gentlemen, _that_ , proves my fitness to rule. I do not answer to men. I answer to God, as his anointed servant and Queen. There is no requirement for a Lord Protector, and thus there shall be none. The law states that I shall act as Regent to her Majesty the Queen until she is of age, and then she shall rule as her father's heir. There is no other law that can gainsay that - and you all know it. Furthermore, it is against nature that any who is _not_ anointed and crowned rule England without good reason for twenty years or more. Those who have tried have always found themselves at the mercy of others who seek to overthrow them - and thus send their kingdoms into the bloody mire of civil war. I will not have it. I will not, Sirs! Either you are with me, or you are against me. If you are against me, then there is no place for you at my Council table. Make your choice."

Cromwell stares at her in astonishment. If they did not believe her capable of rule, then that must surely serve as a warning that they are wrong. It would never have occurred to him to advise her to be so blunt - or to assert her royal privilege and authority so strongly; but she is right. The men of the council are no longer arguing over the validity of the acts, and seem to have accepted them. It all hinges upon the presumption that England cannot be ruled by a woman - and he has not failed to notice Norfolk's argument that a Lord Protector shall rule England until a male heir is born, regardless Elizabeth's coming of age. From the expressions upon the faces of Cranmer, Sussex and Southampton, that suggestion alone has driven them from his camp. None of them have any wish to see Thomas Howard rule England until a child is old enough to bear a child of her own - and _that_ child is grown to maturity. Twenty years? More? How long would it be until a rival attempted to unseat him? And then what?

Her eyes hard as diamonds, Anne watches as the men before her take in her words. Even as she does so, she can see that her demand has hit home. Those who were uncertain are less so now, while those who seemed likely to support her, appear quite determined to do so now. Only Norfolk and those who argued in his favour look sour - but they are fewer in number. She has them. She has won.

Rising to his feet, Cromwell addresses them, "I ask the Council to agree to the confirmation of her Majesty the Dowager Queen Anne as Regent of England until her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's coming of age. In place of a Lord Protector, and guided by her Council and her Parliament. All those in favour, say 'aye'."

* * *

Wiltshire sits beside the window and scowls, while Rochford stamps back and forth in front of the fireplace, "Damn them! Has she bewitched them all?"

"Don't be such a fool." Norfolk snaps, seated at the table, glaring at the younger Boleyn, "She has promised much - and they have taken her at her word. It shall not be long before she discovers that she needs a firm hand at the head of the table. She shall be utterly unable to control the Council, for she is naught but a woman - and no woman can stand ahead of a man. It is against nature, and thus she shall fail."

"With that vile rook Cromwell whispering conspiracies in her ear?" Rochford demands.

"I presume that was _your_ intention, Boleyn?"

The two men glare at one another.

"He is also an abomination against the natural order of England." Wiltshire says, disgustedly, "A base-born commoner holding the power behind the throne? No - that must not be. If we are to prevail, he must be destroyed."

"While your daughter controls the Council?" Norfolk demands, "No, we must be patient, and careful. Once it becomes clear that she is unable to deliver upon her promises, they shall look to us to resolve the chaos that shall ensue. Besides, there are other heirs to whom we can turn."

"You would look to the Lady Mary?" Wiltshire asks, "A bastard Catholic?" He seems utterly indifferent to the suggestion that they would overthrow and destroy his own daughter - and granddaughter for that matter. No, it is the fact that Mary is of the old faith, and not the new. But then, if she were to claim the crown, subservience to the Pope would follow, not to mention the confiscation of religious houses from their new, secular owners. Rochford would _certainly_ not like that.

"I would look to the devil himself if it removed that blasted woman." Norfolk growls, "The Protectorship is _mine_ , and I do not want to be obliged to clear up the damage left from her failure to rule England. If I cannot do so, then at least I can remain upon the Council, and ensure that neither she nor her two low-born advisers destroy our late Majesty's legacy."

"And thus endure the humiliation of capitulating to her ultimatum." Rochford finishes, sulkily.

* * *

Elizabeth is out in the privy garden, playing with her mother's two spaniels under the watchful eye of Lady Bryan and a group of Anne's ladies, while sunlight streams into the privy chamber, warming Anne's hands as she writes at a small desk.

She has Cranmer, Sussex, Southampton, Gage, Petre, Russell, Baker, Browne and Sandys, while Audley and Wingfield have accepted the inevitable. Suffolk has said nothing, but has also not demurred, so only her uncle, father, brother and Bishop Tunstall are truly against her. They, too, have voted to accept her - but she is not blind to the reality that they have done so purely to remain there.

No matter - as long as they are the only ones who are against her, then she is safe for the moment. Not that she is fool enough to believe that she has beaten them; no, they shall doubtless already be looking to plot against her. Norfolk is too convinced that her female state prevents her from being capable of ruling.

"Majesty," Matthew is at the door again, "Mr Cromwell, his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury and Mr Rich are without. They seek an audience with you."

Anne looks up from her list of names, "Thank you Matthew, show them in."

She rises and crosses to the larger meeting table as they enter. They are here to discuss the two most urgent matters facing her since the Council accepted her Regency: her daughter's coronation and, rather more pressing, her late husband's burial.

The funeral shall, of course, be heraldic, and sober - a procession entirely clad in black. The fabric must be paid for, the Pall embroidered, the canopy constructed, every black horse in the stables must be identified for size and temperament…and, God above, the effigy must be made…so much to organise…

The three bow before her, "Majesty," Cranmer says, for the three of them.

"Thank you for coming." She indicates three chairs set to her right, "While I should very much like to commence discussions for Elizabeth's coronation, I think the funeral of my poor late husband must take precedence, as his current state is most unbecoming to his dignity."

Cromwell nods, "Forgive me, Majesty. I was obliged to visit the cellar where his remains have been kept, and it is, to be frank, all but impossible to approach even the door. Thus I have commissioned a lead-lined coffin, which shall be ready by the end of the week."

She nods, "Thank you - did his Majesty leave instructions for his funeral?" She does not like to admit that he would not have mentioned it to her under any circumstances.

"Yes, Majesty." Rich says, burrowing into his papers, "I have his most recent Will here - dictated shortly after your marriage. No later draft has been found, so I consider this - in my legal opinion - to be valid. He decreed that his remains be interred in the Chapel of St George at Windsor. He has also left instructions as to the construction of a table tomb to stand over his final resting place."

"Then we shall abide by his requests as far as is possible, Mr Rich." Anne confirms, "Your Grace, I should be grateful if you could arrange for a service of remembrance and thanksgiving for the life of the King at the end of the week, while arrangements are being made for the procession and interment."

"I shall see to it, Majesty." Cranmer says, though it is clear to the three men at the table that she has not said 'mass'.

"I have calculated the approximate costs of black fabrics for the mourning cloaks and hoods, based upon the numbers of attendees at each expected rank," Rich continues, "As well as velvet for the bier, catafalque and horses. The pall was commissioned some years ago at the same time that the will was drafted, so it is largely completed. His late Majesty's canopy of estate shall serve as his canopy. Given the state of the remains, I fear that it shall not be possible to carve his Majesty's effigy from life, so Mr Holbein's sketches and paintings shall be provided to the artisans who shall cast and carve it." He looks up at her, "Once we have determined who shall be participating in the procession, I shall be able to provide you with a more accurate estimate of the cost."

Anne looks grateful - she can make a decision more quickly now that she has suitable information to base it upon, "Thank you, Mr Rich. I think it best, then, that we consider who shall be required to dress in mourning and walk in the procession."

Cromwell smiles, "That shall be a challenge in and of itself."

"Indeed." She agrees, rather wryly, "So many men who shall think themselves indispensable to the event, when in fact they are not."

"In addition," Cranmer adds, "There is the matter of whether there are too many, or too few. Too few, and it shall appear that we are showing disrespect to our King - too many, and we shall be accused of making a great show of false grief."

"That is ridiculous!" Anne scoffs, "The people of England love their King, and would demand that he be treated with such reverence!"

"Perhaps, Majesty." Cromwell says, carefully, "But, alas, they do not extend that love to you - for they do not appreciate the legitimacy of your marriage, or the illegality of that of the Dowager Princess of Wales."

She stares at him, shocked, "No - that cannot be so, his Majesty assured me that I was loved by our subjects! Katherine was not his true wife - all loyal Englishmen accepted it!"

He regards her, a little sadly. Perhaps she has convinced herself that it is so - for she has rarely travelled far outside the Palace, and never without the King at her side. There was, admittedly, that unpleasant incident when she was accosted by a group of women enraged by her presumption, and was obliged to flee to a barge to escape them; but that had happened before the marriage, so it would not have been difficult to convince herself that the solemnisation of their relationship had eradicated such anger.

To most people, she is a vile concubine, a wanton wench who ousted a Queen to steal her crown. Certainly the King would have insisted that she had the love of the people - at least in the early days of their marriage. God above, he has no wish to tell her that people in the streets and the shires refer to her as 'the paike' - and all that differentiates her from the common trulls who ply the brothels is her elevated state. They know nothing of her spotless reputation in France - only that the King removed the true Queen to make room for her, and that she must have captured him with carnal wiles. He cannot find it in himself to blame her - it is far easier to close one's eyes to opprobrium than to recognise it.

Anne's anger slowly diminishes as she notices his gaze, and she looks dismayed, "Henry lied to me?"

"Forgive me, Majesty. I think he did not specifically _lie_ to you - it was more that he expected them to love you because he loved you, and convinced himself that they did."

"So I must win over more than a mere Council. I must win over a nation."

"Yes, Majesty."

_Damn you, Henry_ , she thinks to herself in a sudden flash of temper. How could he do this? Did he truly believe that, because he wanted something to be so, it automatically _was_ so? Perhaps he did - but always, all that mattered to him was his will - if he wanted it, he expected to receive it, and God help anyone who failed to provide. But what of her belief? How could she have allowed herself to be so wilfully blind? But then - she had truly believed that he would always love her...

That shall not be the case any longer - no, she must look further than the extent of her own comfort and demands. If she must win the love of the people, then she shall find a way to do it.

But first - she has a funeral to organise.


	12. Ten Thousand Yards of Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your reviews and kudos! Apologies for the late posting - real life has that annoying habit of getting in the way.
> 
> Now that Anne has grasped the initiative, there's still the small matter of a decomposing king in a cellar...

Cranmer is holding a kerchief doused in scent over his nose, and a pomander is in his free hand. Anything to keep that vile stench at bay. Royal Henry might have been, but the reek of corruption that exudes from his decaying corpse is so revolting that even to stand in the corridor outside the cold cellar in which he lies is utterly nauseating. He cannot bear to imagine the foul humours that might well lie beyond. Clearly the embalming has done little to stem the tide of decay - but that is perhaps not surprising; in all the hubbub of squabbling over who would lead the Kingdom, no one thought to organise Mr Alsop to secure the appropriate unguents and spices until a scant two days ago.

He has lain within that bow-basket now for just over a week: hardly a long time, admittedly, but without an adequate coffin to contain the remains, there has been no way to prevent the pervasive stink that now fills the room in spite of efforts to mitigate it. Certainly, the men who have come to oversee the appropriate coffining are struggling to contain their nausea - or indeed the contents of their stomachs. The sooner the horrible carcass within is shut behind thick oak and lead, the better.

Beside him, Cromwell is stoic, but equally holds scented fabric to his nose to avoid the odour. No other member of the Council is present, apparently unavoidably detained elsewhere. Given what lies in that cellar, Cranmer can't blame them.

Behind him, the six men who have delivered the coffin are donning leather sleeves and thick gauntlets, leather aprons are already being worn, and they have masked themselves with thick wads of felt that are stuffed with cloves, cinnamon and fennel seeds, and liberally doused with lavender oil in hopes of keeping those ghastly humours at bay.

"I think we are ready." He says, his voice muffled behind his kerchief, "If we could begin?"

All of the gathered men are highly reluctant to open that door - but they have little choice. If the reek had been bad outside, within the cellar it is insupportable, and Cranmer groans as his stomach lurches. Worse, there is fluid leaking from that arrow-basket…

Forcing himself to swallow, hard, the Archbishop begins to speak, "At this time of sorrow, the Lord is in our midst and consoles us with his word: Blessed are the sorrowful; they shall be comforted. Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation. He comforts us in all our afflictions and thus enables us to comfort those who grieve with the same consolation we have received from him."

He averts his eyes as the six attendants lift the bow-case, drips of vile, bloody matter falling from the base as it rises from the table. None of them wish to open it - not now.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. He sill not suffer thy foot to stumble, he who watches over thee will not sleep. Behold, he who keepeth watch o'er Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord himself watches over thee, the Lord is thy shade at thy right hand so that the sun shall not strike thee by day, neither the moon by night. The Lord shall keep thee from all evil; it is he who shall keep thy soul. The Lord shall keep watch over thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever more."

The hideous wicker basket is now in the coffin, followed by handfuls of fragrant herbs, and the lid is being placed, "Martha said unto Jesus, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give thee whatever thou asketh of him.' Jesus said unto her, 'Your brother will rise again.' Martha said unto him, 'I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.' "

And the clasps are locked, shutting in that foul miasma. Relieved, he bows before it, "Now that his Majesty is appropriately coffined, we shall repair to the Queen's apartments to discuss the plans for his funeral." Cromwell knows this, of course, but it seems appropriate to announce it both to the attendants, and to the corpse now safely encased in lead.

Cromwell turns to the attendants, "Once the joints have been soldered, please arrange for the remains to be moved to the Chapel Royal to lie in state. I shall arrange for an appropriate guard of honour. Then see to it that the cellar is thoroughly washed down and burned out to eradicate any lasting humours that might infect game stored here."

The men bow, and stand back to allow the Archbishop and the Secretary to depart.

* * *

Cromwell does not glare at Rich as he returns to the offices; he knows well that his colleague is hardly the bravest man in the palace, and thus is unlikely to be blessed with a strong stomach. Instead, he has spent the otherwise gruesome morning poring over lists of names, working out how much fabric each shall need for their mourning robes and hoods, what types of fabrics are permitted, and what it shall cost. Hardly an easy task. He has already provided a set of costs for the effigy, and supervised its commissioning, while he has asked Sir Anthony Browne to secure sufficient black horses to draw the bier, and organised the collection of the pall from the embroiderers.

"And you have done that just this morning?" Cromwell asks, impressed. He knows that Rich is highly organised, and capable - but it only now that he can see how much.

Rich nods, but does not comment, busily adding up a column of figures. Once done, he sits up, "God above, do we really need so many mourners? It shall cost a small fortune to costume them all. The only saving we are likely to make is upon the horses and the canopy, for we shall not have to buy them."

Cromwell sighs. As though they are not in debt enough. Even in death, Henry seems to demand so much from them.

"I am due to meet with her Majesty the Regent in an hour, Mr Secretary." Rich advises, flexing his cramped fingers, "Can I advise her that she shall be able to view his Majesty's coffin?"

"I suggest that she wait until after the midday meal, Mr Rich." Cromwell answers, "The remains are in a very poor state, and thus the time required to ensure that the coffin is entirely sealed shall be longer than expected. I intend to advise her Majesty to arrange for it to be transferred to a location closer to Windsor, as the distance from Placentia is such that it would be impossible to line the route with black, even though the entire route would be south of the river."

"I was thinking perhaps we should use Richmond?" Rich asks, "Hampton Court is closer to Windsor, but I think for the sake of appearances that we should use the longer route."

Cromwell muses the idea, then nods, "I think that is wise. It would be utterly impractical to process from here - and Richmond would be a worthy place to use as our starting point. Add that to the outline plan, and we can present that to the Queen and Council this afternoon for their vote."

Rich adds the idea to his other notes, "I shall speak to her Majesty now, and provide her with these notes in preparation."

"Good." Cromwell approves, as he turns back to his own desk.

It feels strange to be so busy, when all seems to be in such a state of flux. Hurrying through the corridors, Rich turns the figures over in his head, remembering them, analysing them, thinking them over…

A hand roughly grasps his sleeve, and he is rudely yanked into a small chamber.

"I have been waiting Mr Rich." Wiltshire is standing near the small window, looking out through the leaded diamonds, "Where is the proclamation of the Queen Elizabeth, and Norfolk's protectorship? I believe we requested that you draft those documents some days ago. I did not anticipate that you would be so slow."

Rochford releases Rich's sleeve, and he shrugs his simarre back into place, knowing that he is almost certainly going very pale, as his hands start to chill, and his mouth dries in fear.

"I expect you to work with us - as you chose to do."

He wants to tell them that their casual dismissal of his worth, and of his life, drove him to change his allegiance - but he cannot bring himself to speak. If he does, his voice shall shake, and he has no wish to compound his fear with an additional layer of humiliation.

"Where is the proclamation, Mr Rich?" Wiltshire asks again.

"You have heard it." He stammers, nervously, "It was spoken by her Majesty the Queen Regent but two days ago."

The Earl surges forward, marching across the room to grab Rich by his collar and slam him into the wainscoting, eliciting a sharp yelp of pain, “Are you making fun of me, you vile rodent?"

Shocked at the assault, Rich stares at Wiltshire's raging face, "I assure that I am not, your Grace." His tone is placating, and he curses himself inwardly at his cowardice.

"Then what, in God's name, possessed you to betray us? Do you think that we would let such an insult by? Christ's wounds, I know you to be a filthy perjurer, but this? Treachery against England's rightful Protector? What did Cromwell promise you? Money? Advancement? The satisfaction of some vice or other - women, or perhaps boys or men?"

The suggestion that he has exchanged his loyalties upon such a promise spikes Rich's temper, and he finds it in himself to answer, "If you must know, your Grace, it was _your_ betrayal of _me_ that inspired my act - dispatched to Tyburn in exchange for my loyalty once it had run the course of its usefulness? Do you think that I would be such a fool as to give you my service knowing that my reward would be to dance the Tyburn jig? God knows that I am hardly lacking in faults, and the sins upon my conscience are legion - but I value my neck, and thus I have thrown in my lot with those who would do likewise! God be thanked that I left a document behind that day, and came back to overhear your unguarded conversation - for without it, I suspect that I would already be viewing the inside walls of a chamber in the Tower, would I not?"

"Do not presume that you are safe from such a fate, Rich." Rochford snaps, viciously, "If you believe that Anne shall value your counsel, then you are the very fool you claim yourself not to be. She is naught but a woman, and thus cannot rule. When she falters, and comes crawling to us for aid, you shall find yourself friendless and alone - and the death that you fear shall be most certainly yours."

"And what shall _you_ do when she proves you wrong?" Rich demands, emboldened by his sudden anger.

In response, Rochford backs away a pace or two, and then lashes out, catching Rich across the side of the face and sending him tumbling to the floor.

Wiltshire stops beside him as he gingerly touches at the growing swelling around his left eye, "I do not forget betrayals, Richard Rich. I most certainly shall not forget yours. When your supposed Queen Regent throws all of England into chaos with her womanish misrule, you shall have but two choices - flee, or die."

Rich watches them depart, shaken - but angry. If they hope to cow him into abandoning the Queen, then he shall prove them wrong. Damn them. Cromwell has already sworn himself to her service - his own commitment being far less strong. Not any more - if betrayal of his Queen is what they want from him, then they shall not have it.

Gathering up his fallen wallet, Rich straightens his dishevelled collar, squares his shoulders and leaves the chamber with a far more determined air. The Queen intends to rule with wise heads and good advice. If that is so, then he is determined to provide it.

* * *

Elizabeth is frowning with concentration, " _Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sent, elles sent_." It is not that she cannot remember the conjugation - more that she wishes to pronounce the verbs as well as her mother does.

Anne claps her hands, delightedly, " _Excellent, ma cherie!_ Now, 'to have'."

" _J'ai, tu as, il a, elle a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont, elles ont_."

She is perhaps a little young to be repeating conjugations, but with verbs so irregular, there is no alternative but to know them by heart. Needless to say, Elizabeth delights in the challenge. Her conversational French is improving daily, as they converse in that tongue for at least two hours every day, but the need to be able to _write_ the language with appropriate grammatical correctness can never be prepared for too soon.

"Thank you, Lady Bryan, she is progressing very well."

"Indeed she is, your Majesty." The older woman laughs, "I think that she shall soon leave me behind! Perhaps it is not too early to consider a tutor?"

Anne nods, "Please present me with some recommendations. Be sure that they are both learned, and able to inspire joy in learning. I could not bear it if she lost that love of knowledge."

"Of course, Majesty." She curtseys, "Come your Majesty, it is time to depart. I believe your royal mother must meet with one of your ministers."

"Yes, Lady Bryan." Elizabeth says, a little resignedly, before leaning up to kiss her seated mother on the cheek.

"I shall see you later, my precious." Anne smiles, "We shall dine together and perhaps you would like to go to the mews after the noon to see the horses? I cannot come, alas, for I must meet with your Council - but you can tell me about it before bed."

"Yes Mama."

She watches her daughter depart as Matthew announces Rich's arrival, and she turns to see that his left eye is looking remarkably swollen, "My goodness, Sir - what happened to you?"

"An unfortunate impact, Majesty." He answers, laconically "I inadvertently collided with Viscount Rochford's fist." Now that he has made the decision to throw in his lot with the Queen wholeheartedly, he is quite cheerful about the entire incident.

"How did that happen?" she asks, as he hands her the leather wallet, "My brother is not one to act unprovoked - even if that provocation was largely imagined, or falsely attributed."

"They are still waiting for my draft proclamation."

"That has been given."

"My _other_ draft proclamation."

"Ah, I think I see." She smiles. When he is not being an untrustworthy scoundrel, it seems that Rich has quite the impish sense of humour.

He waits quietly and patiently as she reads through his notes and calculations, "God have mercy, so many?"

"Yes, Majesty. While those of us who carry staffs that we shall break and hurl into his tomb are few in number, those who consider themselves to be of equal importance to the Realm are many - and the list that I have prepared is likely to be the minimum that we can invite to participate without causing monumental offence. There shall be a fair outbreak of ruffled feathers as it is."

"Indeed there shall." Anne agrees, "I shall consider your papers, Mr Rich; though I suspect from what I have seen already that I shall have few questions, and shall have sufficient information to make my decision. We shall discuss it at the Council meeting after the midday meal." She looks up at him, and smiles, "I suggest you visit the kitchens and seek out a raw beefsteak for that eye."

* * *

Cromwell looks up as Rich returns, "God above, Mr Rich, what happened to you?"

"Rochford punched me."

Unlike Anne, Cromwell does not need to ask why, "I take it that they are disappointed in the slow nature of your service?"

"Mightily." Rich sniffs, boredly, "They consider themselves to be a government-in-waiting: ready to dictate terms when her Majesty finds that her natural feminine weakness renders her unable to govern the Kingdom."

"Then they should be advised not to hold their collective breaths." Cromwell snorts, derisively. Are they truly so blind to their daughter's talent? What she lacks in knowledge, she more than makes up for in a willingness to learn, and to work with those who can advise her. He has often wondered what the Kingdom could have been had he been able to deal with her as an equal to the King - and had never thought that he would have the opportunity to find out. Now that his musings have come to pass, however, he rather relishes the challenge. Anne has such a sharp intellect - though her temper can be quite ungovernable at times - and a keenness to understand the intricacies of state that is equal to, if not greater than, that of her late husband.

Oh, King Henry took command of his government in the end - but only after the fall of Wolsey; though he had mistaken capability for presumption. That was also Wolsey's fault, of course, for he had grown to love the power that he held far too much - and thus had opened himself up to the machinations and plotting of Norfolk and the Boleyns. If only he had been more _careful_ …

_I shall learn from that error_. He thinks to himself as he re-reads his draft briefing note for the afternoon meeting. No, he shall stand beside the Queen, advise her as honestly as is possible, and make no move that could be viewed to be motivated solely by self-interest. It shall be hard enough for them to prevent the country spiralling into another civil war without having to fight off accusations of corruption. At least, if he is honest, his denials shall be true. The greatest benefit of telling the truth is not having to remember what one has said.

Setting the brief aside, he resumes his pondering upon how they shall win the love of the Queen's subjects. He remembers their furious arguments over the destination of the monies being brought in from the closure of the smaller religious institutions, and the reasons for it. Henry wanted that money for himself - but perhaps if they can divert what remains of it to charitable causes, that in itself might win the love of the people, as they discover that their Queen is not a remote, jewel-dripped figure in a palace decked with a hundred or more finials and pennants, but instead a maternal figure. What did Rich call her? Ah yes, _Mother of the Realm_.

His mind still on that matter, he burrows through his papers for another, and withdraws a sheet of scrawl that sets out how such institutions could be founded - and paid for. As long as the Queen is content to accept what she has, and not demand more, then it is possible. Fees for the courtiers who live at the palace have not been reviewed for a considerable number of years, so that would also help to support the operation of the palaces, thereby reducing the need to empty those funds into what has become, to his mind, an insatiable, gaping maw. It is too soon to raise the matter - not while they have a funeral and a coronation to organise - but if they can keep the Norfolk faction at bay, she is sure to ask for such a document. Best to have it ready.

* * *

The Chapel is quiet, but for the steps of the woman who enters, and the soft tones of a chaplain reciting verses from the scriptures intended to offer comfort for the souls of the dead. The chapel soars above her, the piers springing out to great ribbed vaults from which fan out designs of leaves and heraldic beasts, while elaborate bosses picked out in bright colours conceal the joints. The walls about her are dazzlingly painted with biblical scenes that are a strange conflict between her love of beautiful things, and her offence at the dreadfully overdone decoration common to all Catholic spaces. Do people think that splattering gallons of paint upon walls brings them closer to heaven? But then, looking at it, in some ways it seems to her that it does.

Her mind is wandering - refusing to settle upon the reality before her. Set upon four trestles to support the combined weight of rotting king, English oak, innumerable bags of sweet spices and very thoroughly sealed lead, the coffin has been left to lie in state. The courtiers might well file in later, and certainly there shall be guards set once she has departed; but for now the space is hers alone.

The atmosphere is a little cloying, as a censer has been hung nearby to dribble fragrant smoke over the Quire in hopes of concealing any possible escape of stench from the intricately carved and decorated coffin. From here, it seems to remind her of Henry at his worst - fabulously beautiful on the outside, but thick with corruption within. The Henry that sent friends to their deaths…that would have discarded her brutally in order to make way for another woman…

No - he was not always like that. There were wonderful times when first they were together, and when they finally were able to wed. He had pursued her as a hound chases a hind, determinedly and without pause - and she had loved it. Exchanging letters, returning gifts only to find herself presented with contrite letters and finer presents still. They had played the game of Courtly Love like virtuosos, a game she had learned in France: give nothing that shall rob you of your chastity - but otherwise, give all that you will. Mary had returned in disgrace - but she had returned in triumph; for, unlike her sister, she had guarded her cherry with fierce determination, and none had plucked it amongst the gardens of Fontainebleau.

The Henry to whom she had planned to give it was not the Henry who eventually claimed it from her. That had been painful - deeply so, for she had loved Henry Percy with all the passion of a young woman who has never loved before. She would have given all in her possession to be his, and he was equally keen for her. God, they were even at the point of betrothal, though it was between only themselves, and neither his family, nor hers, shared their hopes of a future.

And then she had caught the eye of the King; as captivated by her manners and learning as any other of the men of the Court. Being still wedded to Katherine, of course, he had not thought to have her for any purpose other than extra-marital pleasure; but Mary had followed that path, and been cast aside as an abandoned plaything. Anne could not bear to endure such a fate. Shorn of her hopes to be Anne Percy of Northumberland thanks to her lower station and the snobbery of the Percy line, she was faced instead with the bitter prospect of being a royal whore.

_I shall be no man's mistress! I shall not be grasped and deflowered, then palmed off upon some compliant courtier! The man who ends my girlhood shall be my husband - no more, no less - do not think to demand that I commit a mortal sin for your pleasure!_

Such a proud defiance - and one to which she had cleaved absolutely. After all, she had learned as much from her sister's example in England as she had in France - a time of influence and of tumbles, and then suddenly married to someone of suitable standing. Had she loved the King? Or was it a relief to find herself given away to a man who would keep her in an appropriate state for her rank? Henry had loved Mary once - and then he had not.

_He does not truly love you. He shall use you, and discard you, as he has all the others! You are nothing more than a mere_ puta _to him - and I long for your downfall!_

Such anger. Such spite - but it is only now, after the horrible discovery of that Seymour chit perched upon his lap that she understands the bitterness in Queen Katherine's words. How many times had Henry betrayed her with other women? Indeed, did he not flaunt in her poor Spanish face the success of Lady Tallboys in producing the son that she could not?

_No more to you at this present mine own darling, for lack of time, but that I would you were in mine arms, or I in yours, for I think it long since I kissed you._

When had he written that letter? So long ago it seems…but there had been many, and she had treasured each and every one. Had she set out to capture him? Perhaps - for it was her father's wish that she step forth into the Court in hopes of gaining him a place amongst Henry's favourites - relatives of the King's mistresses could often prosper. Not that he had failed to do so upon his own merits - merely because he was impatient and wanted to accumulate as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

"I gave my life to you, Henry - and I believed it to be love as much as passion, for I was a silver hind the you sought with such determination to win, and I delighted in the joy of the hunt. And did you not love me? Your written words assured me of it. I would have tried again, over and over - to the draining of my own life - to give you the son you desired so much, for even were it not my duty to do so, I wished for a male child from my womb as deeply as you. Perhaps I should not have been so forward; but did it not excite you in the first days of our love? I could not be less than I am, any more than you could have been. We could have ruled together, carrying England forth into a new golden age - but instead I am widowed, our heir still a child, and I am standing alone in a chapel speaking to a coffin."

She sinks to her knees, "I swear, my husband, that I shall hold this Kingdom for our daughter. For _your_ Elizabeth. Once you are at rest in the ground, we shall grant her a coronation that shall ensure none shall dispute her right to rule, and it shall be she who presides over that golden age that was denied us."

Has he heard her? Has God heard her? She cannot say for certain; and yet, somehow she feels her conviction that she is doing the right thing almost infinitely strengthened. Yes - Elizabeth is of Henry's blood, and she is his true, legitimate daughter, for she was not born to the widow of her father's brother - a defiance of the laws of Leviticus. It is written than no man may marry his brother's widow…and she does not care whether Katherine spoke truthfully or not when she claimed herself intact at the time that Arthur died. She was a widow who married her late husband's brother - and that is forbidden. Thus Elizabeth is the true child. Not that catechising, self-righteous brat Mary. There is no place for the wretched girl in Elizabeth's court - and, other than the basic courtesy of advising her privately of her father's death through the auspices of Mr Wriothesley, who delivered the news five days ago, there shall be no part for her to play in the ceremonies to come.

Angry with herself for allowing her bitter dislike of that benighted child to intrude upon her time of Prayer, Anne rises again and departs. She has a council meeting to attend.

* * *

Cromwell sits again, having presented Sadleir's carefully noted order of events for the funeral procession of the late King. As always, Sadleir has produced a well considered, and thoroughly researched document, so there should be no objections.

Except for Norfolk, of course - who seems content to do so upon principle alone, "Why was this done by a common Secretary? What does he understand of the precedence of nobility in the Realm?"

Anne knows better than roll her eyes at such a pointless question, "Unless there is a specific point of order, your Grace, I think we can proceed. Merely disagreeing with the rank of the man who wrote it is of little purpose."

Norfolk scowls, but does not try again - even he recognises that he has served only to make himself look petty and childish.

"So it is agreed, then." Cromwell says, "The King's mortal remains shall depart for Richmond Palace tonight, where they shall rest in state within the Palace Chapel there under the care of Reverend Rawson, who shall travel with the escort. Those who are to participate in the procession shall assemble there in readiness to escort the bier two days from now, where they shall be granted their mourning robes. On the third day, the bier shall depart Richmond to process to Windsor, where it shall be interred."

He looks up, and sees nodding heads, though his particular enemies show little enthusiasm. He has not referred to the form of service - but even Cranmer is not fool enough to attempt to deviate from the requiem mass. Henry's flirtation with reform was solely to gain what he wanted when the Pope would not grant it. He has cut ties with Rome, but not with the Roman rite. Now that he is gone, they can progress with their reforms, yes - but it seems a reasonable gesture to hark back to the old ways just one more time. Besides, it shall serve no one if there is a violent reaction to holding the service in English: the old ways are certainly retreating, but they are by no means dead. That shall come - but not yet.

"It is my intention to travel to Windsor ahead of the procession." Anne says, firmly, "I shall view the ceremony from the Queen's Closet."

Cromwell gives no sign of it, but he is relieved. She is disliked by her subjects, and it is not implausible to expect them to react poorly to her presence in the procession. By avoiding it, and remaining out of sight in the Closet built for her predecessor, she can mourn her husband without the risk of being viewed as a triumphant harpy, stealing England for her own. While he is intent upon overturning that perception, it shall take time - a great deal more time than they have before the funeral.

While Anne has spoken the proclamation, it is customary to announce the heir's accession at the funeral of the monarch who has just passed - and so they shall do so anyway; though the tricky subject of the regency shall remain unspoken. It is agreed, and no amount of sulking upon Norfolk's part shall change it. There is no need to re-state it.

"What of the Lady Mary?" Wiltshire asks, suddenly. Why _he_ should raise the matter, God only knows, but Cromwell is quick to answer.

"She remains at Hatfield, but shall be moved in two days time to Enfield, which shall become her principal residence. While she has been advised of the late King's passing, she is not expected to attend the funeral mass." He is quite convinced that Wiltshire is looking to know for reasons other than mere information, so a lie seems wise. Only Anne knows that she has been given the house at Hunsdon, and that she shall instead reside there, guarded by a hand-picked retinue who shall treat her with the respect appropriate to her noble state - but who are primarily loyal to the Crown. He does not dislike the girl - in fact, he respects her - but until the risk of using her to topple Elizabeth's rule has faded away, she is a dangerous pawn in the games of the factions. Even more so given that she is a grown woman of twenty years, and quite possibly eager to claim a crown that she considers to be hers. The fewer people who know of her location, the better. Even if only for a little while.

He turns to see that Queen Anne is fighting to contain an expression of annoyance at her father for speaking of the hated daughter of her rival. For Katherine, even in death, still holds the affection of the people, a lingering spectre of love that cannot easily be banished. It is, he fears, one of Anne's greatest faults - her jealousy of the woman she supplanted, and her eager determination to conceal even the existence of that first daughter of Henry. Like all people capable of great love, she is equally capable of implacable hatred - and Mary has endured the stings and slaps of it to the point that a rapprochement between them is now largely impossible.

That is, however, a matter for another day. Today he shall dispatch Ralph to Richmond ahead of the coffin to supervise the hanging of black fabric drapes along the route that the cortège shall traverse. The small staff of retainers and drudges at the Palace shall already be scrambling to prepare the place for a temporary invasion of Courtiers, while those at Windsor shall be doing likewise. With nothing else of equal significance to discuss, he has work to do - and quite urgently, too.

Perhaps she knows it - for Anne nods, and rises, "Thank you Gentlemen, that shall be all for today. Be about your final duties for our late Liege Lord. I shall prepare to transfer to Windsor in the next two days. We shall next meet there after you have broken your staffs. I shall thus consider appointments to her Majesty's new Council, at which point we shall commence preparations for her immediate coronation."

The men at the table bow as she departs, and Cromwell watches them break up into their various factions as they depart. He has no concerns about most of them - not even Suffolk, who still seems not to have attached himself to any group - but Tunstall has approached Norfolk, and they are talking quietly together with worryingly urgent expressions that he cannot decipher. He shall send word to one of his men to watch the Bishop carefully - it is quite possible that the pair are considering contacting Mary. Or perhaps they are discussing what they shall do if the weather is foul on the day of the funeral. Only a spy can determine that for him.

He replaces his papers in a leather portfolio as Rich joins him, "Ten thousand yards of black." He says, eventually, "God's blood - clothing a cortège is a costly business."

"At least we shall not have to do so again for some considerable time, Mr Rich." Cromwell advises, sagely, "Elizabeth has many years ahead of her yet."

Though the looks upon the faces of Tunstall and Norfolk gives him nervous reason to suspect that there might be fewer of those years than he hopes.


	13. Requiem Aeternam

Mary Tudor, daughter of the King, sits at a small writing desk in her poorly appointed quarters and plucks nervously at the black-embroidered cuff of her mourning gown. While the news in Suffolk's letter had not come as a surprise; it did, nonetheless, inspire a grief within her that the fumbling, cold words of Thomas Wriothesley had dulled. All of her hopes and dreams that her father might see through that thrice-damned whore and welcome his true daughter back to Court as a Princess squashed to nothing by a stone-hard statement issued by an underling, doubtless sent in haste to avoid provoking the anger of those who still regard her as the true heir of England by failing to advise her that both of her parents are dead. Whether or not it was intended as an insult, she has certainly interpreted it as one. Her one consolation is that stammering Wriothesley was not present to witness her tears - for she has wept, and prayed, and wept again since that kind letter was delivered into her hands.

She is not remotely surprised that they have not permitted her to attend her late father as a mourner; but no matter. When the time comes, she shall have her parents reunited in a joint grave, and institute a chapel to pray perpetually for the repose of their souls. Those who have insulted her, and ignored her grief, shall come to regret their actions. First, however, she must attempt to cease fretting over what she has done.

She has made four attempts to dispatch a letter to Suffolk in response to his missive informing her of events in Wiltshire, and in London, but each came dangerously close to being discovered - and thus ended their existence upon the fire. The fifth was handed to one of the few remaining staff who are truly loyal to her only two days ago, and the moment it left her hand - and her opportunities to control those who see it - she cursed herself for her mistake.

_My Gentle Lord Suffolk,_

_It grieves me to learn of my late Lord and father's tragic passing, and the heinous rise of the Concubine and her bastard progeny - though she did offer the concession of deigning to advise me of my loss, perhaps as an afterthought, for it was delivered by a mere Courtier. As the only true child of his Majesty my father, and her Majesty my mother - both of loving and lamented memory - I recognise that it falls now to me to rule England under the natural laws of succession as willed by God, and I accept this burden with both grief for my bereavement, and willingness to serve my Subjects as their true, and lawful Queen._

_I am enraged at the presumption of the Concubine in her unlawful decision to install her illegitimate babe upon the throne of England, and to snatch the Crown from my head to place it upon her own! For England to suffer so cruel a fate as this cannot be God's will, and thus I look to you as the first, and foremost, member of my Queen's Council to advance my interests, as I have no doubt that her first act shall be to remove me from the sight of the people - and I prepare myself for the time of trial to come. I shall not be the first right and true heir to be so removed, but unlike that poor child before me, I shall not vanish away and never be seen again._

_It is my intention, upon the day that my poor Lord and father is consigned to the ground - and thence to Almighty God, to proclaim myself Queen as is my lawful right as his only child of the Blood. With your assistance and advice, I shall then remove all those who opposed me to the Tower, and thence to the lawful punishment for traitors, and establish a new, loyal council to restore England to our Holy Church and to the proper rule of a true and lawful Prince._

_Written on this, the first day of our reign._

_Mary the Queen._

Her trembling hand reaches for her rosary, and she beings to work her way along the beads, though her prayers are automatic and perfunctory as her mind races. God in Heaven, what on earth was she _thinking_? She must be more cautious than that if she is to survive and regain her rightful throne. Should her words fall into the hands of that vile strumpet, then she knows full well that her next home shall be the Tower - and probably for only a scant few weeks before she must mount a scaffold and speak her last words to England alongside the block. Until two days back, she had devoted her time to prayer for the repose of her father's soul - convinced that the Concubine has not arranged for such a courtesy - and grieving for a reconciliation that shall now not come until they are united in God once more. Now, however, it is hard to concentrate on anything other than wishing she had been more circumspect.

She fumbles the beads, and the rosary drops to the table with a sharp clatter, wrenching her out of her nervous reverie and causing her eyes to fill with yet more tears. Her mis-step haunts her: the stress of knowing that her impulsive act might well have led to her own doom refusing to leave her in peace. Perhaps she should have attempted to make overtures to that viper Cromwell? From what she has learned through rumours, he abandoned That Woman some months ago - perhaps he might be willing to look to the true daughter of his King in order to bring England safely through the storms.

The sound of rhythmic footsteps captures her attention, and her stomach lurches. Her letter has been found - they are coming for her. Only a platoon of soldiers makes such a sound as that when it moves.

Growing pale, she rises to her feet and turns to the door. Best to make a good face of it when they come to arrest her. She hastily dashes away the barely shed tears and remonstrates with herself. It would not do to faint, or to cry: her mother would be furious at such cowardly behaviour…

The door opens, but it is not a guard who enters, but instead a well-dressed man she does not recognise. To her astonishment, he bows to her, "My Lady Mary, forgive our rude intrusion upon your devotions. I am Sir William Paulet, and I have been dispatched from Court to escort you to your new accommodation."

"So I am to leave Hatfield." She says, curtly. A strange way to describe imprisonment in the Tower.

"Yes, My Lady. Your goods and chattels shall be gathered and packed, and you are to be escorted to Hunsdon, which has been given to you by her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth as your new residence. There you shall be provided with a full staff of servants and attendants as befits your noble state, and you shall receive a pension of two hundred pounds a year for your personal living expenses. The costs of your household shall be met by the State." He bows to her, courteously.

"Two hundred pounds?" Mary stares at him, astonished - that is a truly enormous sum, and not one that would be granted to one destined for the Tower, surely? The Concubine would _never_ have granted her such generosity; it can only be one of her councillors - and one who holds sufficient favour to have persuaded her to agree to it. Furthermore, she is not required to fund her household out of that largesse - she is free to purchase gowns, linens, lessons - whatever she wishes. All the rest of her costs shall be paid for as though she were, once again, a true Princess of the Blood.

"Yes, my Lady."

"By whose orders?" she says, a little more incisively. A babe of less than three years would not have been able to make such a grant.

"By order of her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, signed and approved by Mr Secretary Cromwell under the authority of her Majesty the Queen Regent." Paulet advises, "I have the appropriate documentation for your Comptroller."

"I do not have one, Sir." She reminds him.

"One has been appointed, Madam. He shall be awaiting you at Hunsdon." He looks around at the assembling staff, "You may appoint your preferred Gentlewomen of your Chambers as you wish. The rest of your household has been appointed by the Crown."

So it is not entirely a gift, then: she is still to be watched. At least, however, she shall be spied upon in comfort - and that shall grant her the space and time to think upon how she shall claim England back from the woman who has stolen it from her. They have not seen her letter to Lord Suffolk, and thus she shall have her advocate at Court. Yes - it seems that God is indeed smiling upon her, and He is intent upon bringing her to her Kingdom after all.

She smiles, grateful for His unexpected gift, "Thank you, Sir. I shall make my preparations to leave Hatfield at once."

* * *

The tramp of feet is muffled by a thick layer of rushes over the poorly maintained road, while the drums that beat are covered in black serge, and are equally muffled. People stand along the route, watching in silence as the grim cortège makes its slow, ponderous way from the palace of Richmond to the Castle of Windsor - near on twenty miles.

Those who are with the bier are on horseback, for none of the grand Lords are yet part of the escort. They await its arrival at Ditton Park, gifted to Anne by Henry upon their marriage, whereupon they shall fall into step before it and escort it for the last three miles of its journey. That alone shall take the best part of two hours, for none shall be permitted to ride.

"I would advise you to sit, Mr Cromwell." Rich says, looking across at the balustrade of a terrace overlooking the great park, where the Secretary is standing and keeping watch for the King's train, "You shall have ample time upon your feet once we depart."

He makes a remarkably unnerving sight, clad in long black robes and his mourning hood. From a distance, he resembles a hideous vision of a haunted ghost of a friar from some foolish French romance, for the garb has changed little in form from many years ago, when men dressed in such manner as a matter of course. To Cromwell's mind, they all look quite ridiculous - and he fancies that Henry's shade is looking down upon them, and laughing heartily at their old-fashioned manner of dress. Perhaps he should indeed join Rich upon that stone bench - for he is right. Once the cortège arrives, they shall walk to Windsor from here, whereupon they shall be obliged to stand for at least another hour upon hard tiled floors while Cranmer leads the requiem mass. Even once _that_ is done, there is still the interment, where they shall break their staffs of office and fling them into the tomb. It shall be several hours before he can seat himself again - and everyone shall then be fighting for chairs to take their weight off their swollen, sore feet. He considers it highly likely that at least one person shall faint at some point, and he has assembled the King's doctors to tend to any who do.

Queen Anne, of course, shall not be required to stand - she shall be seated upon the finely upholstered chair that was intended for Queen Katherine's use in order to watch the proceedings from that small watching chamber they call a closet. Elizabeth shall also be at Windsor, for Anne refuses to be parted from her, but shall remain in the King's apartments with Lady Bryan rather than be required to sit still and quiet for so long. Intelligent she may be, but she is still little more than a babe, and it is a great deal to ask of her.

"It seems strange, does it not?" Rich says, reflectively, "We thought Henry would live forever - after all, even when he was felled at the joust, still God required him to remain and continue to rule. Somehow, I cannot find it in me to believe that he is dead - even though the evidence is before my eyes."

Cromwell nods, "Do we not all think that of our Kings? And yet they are as we are - mere clay that falters and crumbles when God calls us home. _Vivat Rex_."

Rich falls silent, and Cromwell can see he is fidgeting again - always a sign of nerves in his colleague, "If it is any consolation, Mr Rich: I, too, dread what shall come upon the morrow. There is much to be done - and no certainty that we shall prevail against those who would seek to overturn the King's will for the succession."

Rich does not bother to contradict Cromwell - for the Secretary is right.

"As I said when first you came to me," Cromwell continues, "we must stand together - for if we do not, we shall most assuredly fall. I think, however, that I should prefer it if we stood together as friends."

Rich looks up at him, surprised. Cromwell grants friendship to few - but to those who have it, he is a staunch and loyal companion, "You would risk trusting me?" He asks, sardonically, "I think you are mad to offer such a gift. I am not unaware of my reputation."

"As I am not." Cromwell agrees, "But nonetheless, if we are to serve England, and her Queens, with diligence and to the best of our ability, it shall serve us equally well if we set aside any differences and learn to trust one another fully. We shall be beset by enemies - thus we must trust one another absolutely if we are to survive."

He knows that he is taking a risk: Rich has little in the way of true bravery, and his loyalty to any who do not wear the Crown is dubious at best; but that small glitter of absolute loyalty in the midst of the dross of his faults is diamond hard, and if it can be harnessed, then they shall be a far stronger foundation upon which Queen Anne can build her new government. The forces of nobility ranged against them is powerful - but as the old ways continue to falter in the face of new ideas, the time of rule only by noble families is coming to an end. Is he himself not proof of that?

"I shall think upon it." Rich says, quietly, "But it shall have to wait - for the cortège approaches."

They rise from the bench, "I shall rouse our fellow councillors from their slumbers within." Cromwell says, a little derisively, "For doubtless they are unprepared."

Rich nods, then fumbles with his hood to don it, takes up his white staff of office and makes his way down to the forecourt to greet the bier.

Inside the manor house, Cromwell is not surprised to see that the assembled lords and gentlemen are indeed otherwise interested, and he crosses to the Garter King of Arms, who shall - once the funeral is done - announce the accession of Queen Elizabeth. His staff is heavy, and his voice loud. Besides, they shall pay him more respect than the loathed Mr Secretary.

"My Lords!" the burly man bawls, startling everyone in the chamber, "His Majesty the King is without!"

There is no need to tell them what to do, thank God. Still talking amongst themselves, the gathered men also don their hoods, and start to file out.

* * *

Seated in the small chamber that grants her full view of the chapel below, while none can see her, Anne watches as the heavy coffin is brought in upon the shoulders of ten of the strongest men of the King's Guard. God above - what must _that_ weigh if so many are needed to bear it?

Cranmer leads the slow procession through the nave, while the black-clad hordes behind file in, and then separate into two ranks under the guidance of the stewards and heralds, also dressed in black; but decorated with bright tabards upon which are emblazoned the Arms of England. As they stream in, they resemble a flock of rooks, driven from their rookery but now coming home to nestle upon the branches. The bleakness of that vision serves to be most appropriate to her forlorn mood.

She listens to the ancient words of the latin mass that she would rather not have permitted. Henry had been so keen upon reform in those early days - but now that she thinks upon it, how much of that fervour was built upon the statement that the Church had no authority over Princes? He was never one who could bear the knowledge that another man had the power to command him. No - his will for reform stretched as far as removing the requirement to bow before the Pope - and no further. Thus he receives his consignment to God via the Roman Rite.

And now the coffin is resting within the Quire - and she forces all distractions from her mind. For all his faults - which were legion - she loved the man who lies within that coffin. After all, is that not what love entails? Knowing that the one to whom you are bonded is flawed and imperfect - as are all men - but loving even those flaws? There were times when she hated him, but she never ceased to love him, and that was the truest source of her misery and rage when she found him in the very act of betrayal.

_I shall not betray you, my Love. Nor shall I betray England._ She vows silently as the Archbishop completes the Introit and they move on to the Kyrie Eleison, _as God is my witness, and upon the damnation of my mortal soul, I swear to you that Elizabeth shall come into her Kingdom and rule it well. We shall uphold the Tudor Legacy that began with your father, and shall continue with your daughter_.

There is no sound but for Cranmer's voice as he leads the mourners through the Creed, Offertory, Sanctus, Benedictus and Agnus Dei. His words are occasionally punctuated by shuffling, and a cough echoes now and again; but otherwise the mood is sombre, and there is no music to lessen that heaviness of the atmosphere - and even the celebration of communion is silent but for footsteps as people approach the altar rail, and depart. Her own communion is given by her chaplain, and over quickly, so she must wait for the multitude below to be fed before matters can continue.

Eventually, at long last, the mass ends as Cranmer grants God's blessings upon those present, and matters can move to interring the coffin in the vault below the Quire. Henry had probably wanted an ornate table-tomb with a marble effigy - but what use is that to any in so narrow a space as this? No - a great stone shall be set over his tomb to mark it, but first he must be set into it, and then his council must signify the end of their service to him by breaking their staffs and hurling them down in his coffin's wake.

If ten men were required to carry the King's remains into the chapel, another six are pressed into service to lower it into the grave, two men to each end of four great linen towels - and even that is a struggle, she can see the grimaces of effort upon their faces.

One by one, the men of Henry's last Council approach, followed by various of the higher ranked stewards and officials of the Court. Each takes the thin, white staff granted to him, breaks it in two, and casts it down into the vault below them, then retreats. They are not obliged to remain to watch the grave sealed - that shall take far too long and lack the dignity of all that has come prior. Instead, the Garter King of Arms stands before the high altar, "My Lords! Forasmuch as we grieve the loss of our late Liege Lord and King, Henry the Eighth of England, Ireland and France: in accordance with his royal will, and the lawful rights of succession under God, so commences the reign of his heir, Her Majesty, Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, France and Ireland, defender of the faith and in the earth supreme head of the Church of England and Ireland. God save the Queen!"

There is no answer, for that is not required. Instead, Anne watches carefully as the assembled throng collectively bow in acknowledgement of the accession. She cannot make out most of the faces under those ridiculous hoods, and thus cannot tell who is pleased, or who is not - but it no longer matters. Elizabeth's right has been proclaimed, and now all know it.

Sitting back in her chair, she smiles to herself in satisfaction.

And then crumples into miserable tears.

* * *

She has eaten little since returning to the Apartments, though her stab of anguished grief is softened a great deal by Elizabeth's presence. The child is engaged in an elaborate scene that she is staging with a richly dressed wooden doll whom she calls 'Lady Mille-Fleurs', and seems happily oblivious to the momentous events of the day.

Anne sips at a glass of warmed wine steeped with calming herbs, and ponders her next move. While Elizabeth's reign has been announced and proclaimed - not necessarily in that order - and her legal rights to rule have been formalised, there still remains the intractable problem of ensuring that her own Regency is not usurped, or that Katherine's brat shall not attempt to wrest away an inheritance from which her bastardy precludes her.

God's wounds - such spite! Should she not be magnanimous in victory? And yet she cannot be - for she has not forgotten the girl's defiance and refusal to accept the reality of her new state; nor has she forgotten the endless fears that Henry would restore her to the succession, over the head of her half-sister. Even the discovery that she is now paying so handsomely for the ghastly creature's comforts at Hunsdon fills her with resentment. The sooner the wretched girl is married off and buried in a manor far out in the countryside, the better. There is no place for her here.

Matthew enters the room, discreetly, "Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without."

She sets the cup down, "Show him in, Matthew. Thank you."

He looks tired, and grateful to be permitted to sit after a long, long day upon his feet, "And so it is done." She says, calmly.

"Yes, Majesty. The King is buried, our service to him ended. Now you must appoint a council for your daughter, and begin anew."

"And fight to keep what we have gained." She adds, darkly.

"And that." Cromwell agrees, blandly. God, he can be inscrutable sometimes.

"I think it wise that we appoint my daughter's council before we commence work upon the Coronation." She says, "Though if you have already made preliminary notes, those shall serve as a foundation upon which to build our plans." If he has not done so, then she shall be obliged to revise all that she thinks she knows about him.

His expression a little sheepish, he removes several sheets of rough paper from his portfolio, "I did take the liberty of preparing a rough outline, Majesty." he admits, then breaks into a mild smile as she chuckles at him.

"I think it would be wise to retain as many of the existing councillors as possible," Anne says, still smiling, "Though I think it equally wise to reassign the Offices of State. I do not wish to have men I cannot trust holding positions of power and influence. Thus I have a list of names - what is your opinion?" she hands him a paper of her own, "I intend to grant the Chancellorship to Sussex, and Southampton shall be Lord President of the Council, but I require a man of knowledge and expertise in matters of governance to hold the position of Lord High Treasurer, and thus I wish to assign that to you."

Cromwell looks up from the paper, his expression startled at being offered such a high office of State, "Majesty - I am honoured, but is it truly wise to remove it from its current holder? He shall be hard enough to manage as it is."

"Norfolk shall have the rank of Earl Marshal of England. Something that he can bequeath to his sons."

He looks worried - and with good reason. Anne is well aware that she is taking the second highest of the great offices of State away from her uncle, and replacing it with the eighth - only the Lord High Admiral is lower in rank - but she wishes to send a strong message to Norfolk that she will brook no interference from him. Removing his high office and granting it to a commoner could not be a clearer statement of her intent - but it is also a mortal insult, and one for which he is unlikely to forgive her.

"I shall also give Mr Rich the responsibility for my personal seal." She adds, ignoring Cromwell's consternation, "While Sir John Russell shall retain his position as Lord High Admiral. Sir Anthony Browne shall also remain Master of the Horse."

"Majesty - I fear that you shall create a dangerous enmity in your uncle should you continue with this plan."

She shakes her head, "You know, as I do, that we must appoint men of merit to positions of State. You have served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and all that is spent is known to you. This office shall grant you the opportunity to continue to reform the government as you have been attempting to do - and you shall have my absolute approval to do so."

_That_ has tempted him. His attempts to force reform upon the antiquated systems of governance has hardly gone unnoticed to her. The need to be discreet in order to avoid causing great upsets has forced him to do so in a haphazard, disorganised fashion - but the need for reform overrides the self-regard of those who would resist. As Lord High Treasurer, he would have a far freer hand to complete those reforms - and she knows, as he does, that they are sorely needed.

"I am not blind to my situation, Mr Cromwell." She reminds him, "All expect me to stumble and fall as I rule England in Elizabeth's minority. Thus I look to you to aid me, for you shall lead my government, as I lead my Kingdom. I cannot do this alone, as Henry could not - though he pretended otherwise - for it is too great a task for one soul to accomplish in isolation. If we are to prevent England from collapsing into bloody civil war, and keep her safe for Elizabeth when she comes of age, then I must look to men such as you to stand at my side: men of talent upon whom I can truly rely."

It is not a sop to his self-regard - it is the absolute truth. Regardless of their falling out, there is no other man at Court who can hold a candle to this man in terms of ability, loyalty and sheer hard work. Henry always forbade her from involvement in governance, so now she must learn it, and learn quickly. There is no other tutor to whom she would rather turn.

"If that is so, Majesty," he says, quietly, and with sincerity, "Then, as I have done already, I shall pledge my loyalty to you absolutely and utterly - but in doing so, I also grant you all the knowledge at my command, a promise that I shall never tell you anything but the truth, and a commitment to be truly frank with my advice. I shall conceal nothing from you that pertains to the future safety of the Realm, and I shall not dismiss or belittle your opinions if they are not in accordance with mine."

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell," She says, relieved to have at least his loyalty if no one else's, "I am grateful that we are no longer opposed to one another - and I hope that, if not at this moment in time, we shall be able to be friends?"

"I should be delighted, Majesty."

* * *

"Damn that daughter of yours, Wiltshire!" Norfolk growls, furiously, "God's curses on her! How _dare_ she take my office from me! Worse! She gives it to that upstart nobody Cromwell! Earl Marshal? I am to be Earl bloody _Marshal_ and no more than that? Christ's wounds! She shall pay for this insult!"

"If you try to extract payment by ruining Elizabeth's coronation, then she shall surely have Cromwell find a means to remove you for treason." Wiltshire retorts, rather less loudly, "You at least still _have_ an office. That squirming rodent Rich has taken mine - and I have been granted nothing in return."

There is no disguising his disgust, even if he is not shouting it. Their ascendancy is, it seems, at an end; and it has been brought about by the very woman who benefited from it.

"How the hell is it that Cromwell has such power over her?" Rochford demands, "I cannot believe that this is her doing - she lacks the wit."

"But not the spite." Wiltshire snaps back, "God knows she has turned to him like a dog returns to its vomit - but she is a weak and foolish woman, she has neither the wit nor the sense to think beyond the donning of her next gown."

Norfolk ignores his brother-in-law's griping, which is as equal in bile as that he attributes to his daughter. If he truly believes that Anne is as unintelligent as he claims, then he is the real fool. No - he is spitting insults out of jealous spite of his own. He has lost access to the Queen's Privy Seal, and thus cannot use it for his own ends. That privilege now falls to the former Solicitor General.

Unless, of course, they can find some means of controlling him.

"Rich is the weak link." He says, after a while, "He holds the Queen's personal seal - and we can use that to our advantage if we can exploit it. A man of his duplicity shall be easily bought; it is merely a matter of discovering his price. Thus we can disrupt the course of government, and should we miscarry, he shall bear the blame, and the consequences."

"You shall never find a price that he shall accept." Wiltshire grumbles, "Not now that he has so high an office. He shall be no easier to subvert than Cromwell."

"I suspect, however, that he shall be more amenable to threats. He is, after all, a notorious coward."

Tunstall, who has remained silent so far, shakes his head, "It is a waste of resources - let us bide our time and allow them to fail at their endeavours. Once it becomes clear to the council that they cannot succeed, it shall be a simple matter to oust them. Whether or not you wish to send them to the Tower at that time is a matter that you can consider at your leisure. The less that you do now, the less likely you are to find yourself attempting to answer a charge of treason. It is my considered opinion that they are keen for us to do exactly that. We are all that remains of our late King's truly loyal Council - and thus it is for us. There is, after all, the daughter of our late Queen Katherine, is there not?"

Everyone stares at him, particularly the two Boleyns. To speak so is outright treason in and of itself - but for Wiltshire and Rochford, the suggestion that they oust their own blood would be anathema. Or, at least, in other circumstances perhaps.

"Once it has become clear that a babe cannot rule," Tunstall continues, "And her mother cannot prevail as regent, it shall be a simple matter to remove them to a quiet manor far from London, where she shall give out that she has decided to retire from public life to raise her daughter in peace. Thus England shall be safe in the hands of a Lord Protector until such time as a male Tudor is of age to rule as King."

Suddenly everyone is more interested. Mary might be of age, but she is a mere woman, and thus shall be easily prevailed upon to permit the presence of a Lord Protector - if she does not, then they shall revive the defunct rank of Lord High Steward, thereby creating the same position, but one that gives the illusion of control to the Queen.

"All depends upon the failure of the current reign." Norfolk muses, "And we are not best placed to effect such an outcome. Those who hold the true power upon the Council are for the Regent. Thus we must seek out an opportunity as and when it arises."

It is not the best solution - but with things as they are, they have no choice.

The King is dead. Long live the Queen.


	14. Vivat Regina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind comments and kudos! I've also done a substantial amendment to Elizabeth's coronation, extending it into two days, one for the Procession, the other for the Coronation itself. I hope I've caught all the bits I needed to change - please let me know if I missed anything!

The sun is warm as late spring moves on into early summer, and Mary is walking in the gardens of her personal residence, surrounded by her women, while her small skewbald spaniel, Pax, runs on ahead.

The news from London is disheartening in the extreme. While she has been permitted to select the women who attend her personally, the rest of the Household has been appointed by the Concubine's favourites, and thus she has no means to smuggle communications out of the house. Consequently, she is reliant upon rumour to tell her of what is happening, and she cannot ask any to intervene upon her behalf.

She cannot find it in her heart to despise the child Elizabeth - that has never been something that she has been able to do - but even so it galls her to the very core of her soul to know that the babe shall be carried to her coronation in a mere three days' time, where she shall be anointed and crowned, and there shall be an end to it. Worse, the Concubine shall be declared - and crowned - Regent of England, and then the throne that is rightfully hers shall be taken away, with no prospect of her being able to take it back.

Suffolk has not replied to her letter, and she wonders if he ever received it. What if he did - but ignored it? Has he, too, fallen for the wiles of the woman who shattered her life? Oh, Holy Father - please let that not be so. How much more misfortune must she be obliged to endure? Orphaned…banished from Court…robbed of her rightful inheritance…

God - such self-pity! What has happened to her pride? Angry with herself for her childish complaining, she draws herself up and quickens her pace. It is too late to avoid the coronation of her half-sister - but if that woman has shunned the requirement to appoint a Protector, then more fool her. Perhaps it shall be possible to reclaim her throne before England is destroyed by such misrule. With the assistance of a suitable Protector to advise her, she shall ensure that any damage is reversed.

Her attention is caught by the presence of a stranger at the far end of the garden, near the house, and she stops, "Mistress Clarencieux, is that man familiar to the household?"

Her favourite Lady, and close friend, Susan Clarencieux watches over the staff of the household with a close eye, and she shakes her head, "I do not know him, my Lady."

"Then we shall approach him together." Mary says, linking arms with her friend. The man has the air of a courtier - but not an established or experienced one. If he has been at court, it was only for a short time.

As they approach him, he bows deeply, "Forgive my intrusion, my Lady. I bring news from your friends at Court."

"I have friends?" Mary asks, though her tone is sardonic. If she ever had friends there, she has them no longer.

"This is my token." The man holds out a small brooch with a signet upon it in enamel, and she recognises the crowned lion rampant or on a field of gules and argent: Suffolk.

"And you are?" she asks, slightly less suspicious now.

"I am Edward Seymour of Wulfhall, son of Sir John Seymour." He says, gravely, "I am sent by his Grace to advise you of his loyalty to your cause, and hopes that the rightful rule of England can be restored to the true daughter of his late Majesty."

Mary's eyes narrow. Is this a trap? Does the Concubine look to create a case of treason against her? "Do not ask me to conspire, Mr Seymour."

"I ask nothing of the sort, I assure you. Even those who once supported your late Mother have abandoned her legacy in hopes of preferment, but his Grace of Suffolk remains your friend, and shall work to promote your interests at Court, so that you are not forgotten. When it becomes clear to all that Madame Boleyn has failed to deliver upon her promises as utterly as she failed to deliver a son, then England shall look to you - and we shall escort you to your Palace, and your throne."

She smiles then, "I shall await that with my prayers and most fervent hopes, Sir. You have my assurance that, when I come into my inheritance, I shall not forget those who were my friends when all others were not."

"The Council have dispatched me to escort my sister to serve in your Household." Seymour continues, "I have returned to court in the retinue of the Duke. Therefore we are trusted by those who rule, and none shall comment upon our presence, nor our communications with this house."

Mary fights with herself not to exult in her sudden change of fortunes; in a single instant, she has a friend upon the Council, and a means to communicate with him.

Perhaps, then, she shall be able to reclaim her mother's stolen rights, and she shall rule England after all.

* * *

Anne is achingly tired after a long, long day of meetings and plans for Elizabeth's coronation. Despite his furious reaction to his appointment, Norfolk's pride refuses to permit him to ruin the occasion, and thus he has ensured that the two days required to complete it shall be a great celebration of England's new Queen.

Mr Cromwell has organised the creation of a fine gold circlet for her daughter to wear once the crown of St Edward has been set over her head by Mr Cranmer, while her late husband's canopy of estate has been repurposed and set with the Arms that have been granted to Elizabeth as Queen. While the escutcheon shall contain the Arms of England, the supporters shall be a lion to dexter, and a dragon to sinister, to reflect her mother's former Marquessate of Pembroke. A new canopy has been commissioned, but the urgency of the need to crown Elizabeth has dictated their actions, and so they make do with what they have.

"Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without." Lady Rochford is the only companion currently present, the others are engaged in the inventory of her linens, as they are to move to Whitehall in two days' time, before Elizabeth takes up temporary residence in the Tower - as her mother did before her coronation.

"Thank you, Jane. Show him in."

She is setting up the chessboard as he enters, and he looks pleased, "Ah, more chess, Majesty?"

"Of course. I enjoy attempting to strategise while I have my mind upon other matters."

"All is set for the Coronation procession." He advises, as she holds out her hands for him to choose a piece and determine the colour he shall play. Black again. So she shall make the first move, "I am given to understand that the populace is showing rather more enthusiasm for her than expected; for much work has been expended in the churches to promote her as God's chosen Queen through homilies and teachings of the scriptures."

Anne remembers the reaction to her own coronation - which was hardly ecstatic - and is relieved that the risk has been anticipated and efforts made to counter them. Elizabeth is intelligent, but she is also very young, so she shall notice any antipathy, and wonder why it is directed at her. It seems, however, that her fears shall not be realised.

"We are presenting her Majesty as the daughter of King Henry first and foremost, Majesty. Consequently, she is looked upon with love as his child, and it is my hope that that glory shall reflect upon you."

She smiles, "Being frank with your advice, I see. And what of Mary?"

"As I expected, Edward Seymour arrived at Hunsdon yesterday, with his sister in tow. Neither they nor his Grace of Suffolk are aware of that knowledge - but it is my intention to leave their activities uninterrupted for the time being as it is highly likely that they intend to wait for some expected failure upon your part before they act. One of Miss Seymour's women is for us, and thus she has offered herself as a courier to transport their communications, as her mother is within the Countess of Suffolk's retinue. Should the status quo be disturbed at a later time, we shall know of it, and be prepared."

"So Mary intends to conspire against me." Anne says, her expression unnervingly vicious in the face of a threat to her daughter.

Cromwell shakes his head as he moves his bishop, "I think not, Majesty. Not at this time. We have no grounds to arrest her, and I think it better to ensure that she is aware of the love in which Elizabeth is held, thereby giving her cause to doubt that England shall rise in her favour. There is no danger of failure in your rule, Majesty - for I do not think you to be the weak woman that others see you to be. Consequently, Mary shall only be a threat to you if others give her cause to be."

"Such as Suffolk." Anne reaches for a knight, then changes her mind and pulls her hand back again, "He has never been for me - and I have my suspicions that he turned Henry against me."

"Suspicions are not evidence, Majesty."

"I know." She sighs, finally reaching for the knight and moving it, "And I am equally aware that his Grace of Suffolk is too self-interested to risk his neck in such fashion. He was undoubtedly loyal to my husband, and perhaps he believes that his approaches to Mary are for the good of the Kingdom. But then, he presumably thought that marrying his ward to keep her lands for himself would be good for his coffers."

Cromwell peruses the board, "I am still of the view that Norfolk and his cohorts are the most immediate threat, for they have a fully formed faction present at the council table, and they shall be most able to act quickly if they spy an opportunity to move against us. While it is clear that Suffolk and the Seymours have Mary's ear, they cannot respond with the same degree of rapidity. It shall be more likely that Norfolk shall move to oust us, and step forth as Protector for Elizabeth. That shall be a far easier prospect than courting Mary if another faction has already done so."

"Unless she sees the opportunity to remove Elizabeth and rule in her place."

"I think that equally unlikely, Majesty. She shall need the aid of the council to do that - which she lacks at this time."

"I do not." She says, rather more firmly.

"Believe me, Majesty, I do not discount it - for the threat is present; but Mary has no legal basis upon which to stake her claim, as she has been declared the bastard offspring of an invalid marriage." He pauses, "Check."

Startled, Anne looks down and sees that her King is under threat - though there is a means of escaping Cromwell's encroaching chessmen. She knows from personal experience that she has no real hope of winning Mary's regard, much less her respect. As for love? Mary would burn in hell before she offered such a thing. Therefore, she must instead keep the young woman at arm's length, and hope that her compliance can be purchased through a generous pension. And that is a thin hope at best.

Spotting an opening, she takes one of Cromwell's knights with a pawn she can afford to sacrifice. If only it could be like this more often - simple games of chess with a trusted companion for whom she bears only friendship. Love proved to be a complicated, troublesome business - and the grief that it has caused her is a heavy burden to carry. Thomas Cromwell holds no interest to her of a carnal nature, but she finds his company refreshing for its lack of refinement. Oh, he can politic with the best of them, and his manners are always excellent when moving amongst the courtiers, but when he is not, there is an edge of roughness about him that stems from his low-born roots and the journey he has travelled to reach this place; a sense of having truly lived.

"What is it like, out there?" she asks, suddenly.

"Out where, Majesty?"

"In the world - outside these safe, protected walls." Anne clarifies, "I have known only wealth and comfort for the entirety of my life - the greatest hardships were spent taking ship from Calais back to England, for that was a roughness to which I was not accustomed. What is it like to not have such privileges?"

Cromwell eyes her, intrigued at her sudden interest in the wider world, "It is hard, Majesty. Life for most can be dirt-ridden, brutal and often short. I was fortunate in that my family could afford an education for me, but nonetheless I departed England at a tender age and sought my fortune upon the continent. I fought in wars, was taught commerce by the Patriarch of a Florentine Banking family, learned various languages and moved amongst merchants and thieves. At times I had almost nothing - indeed when I came to Florence, I was in little more than rags and my shoes were all but falling apart. I have known hunger, and poverty - but I have seen far worse misery than mine."

"And is that so in England?"

He nods, "For those who have much, there is plenty - but men are only willing to give to others if they fear their souls to be in peril. There are few who are truly and openly generous to those of lesser fortune than themselves. I have done what I can to bring succour to those of lesser state through the Law, but without the agreement of the Council, my abilities to do so have been limited. The ease with which one can fall from wealth into penury would shock you. Even one as wealthy as Norfolk could lose every penny from his coffers, and every acre of his land if he were to be attainted - and thus his family would also be left with nothing. For those of lesser means, the illness of the man of the household is sufficient to cast them all into starvation."

They have stopped playing, the pieces ignored upon the board as Anne takes in the realities of life for her subjects. Jesu - she has been sheltered, so utterly sheltered. Those poor beggars whose feet she washed upon Maundy Thursday, and to whom she granted alms - they were but a few, chosen to come to her for the sake of ceremony: how could she have been so blind?

Because she was content to be. Safely cosseted in her warm chambers, a carpet upon which to walk, fine leather shoes enclosing her dainty feet. Meals of such proportions that the waste of victuals was shocking - even though it was intended for show, and the leftovers handed out to the poor - now, it seems a scandal.

"When Elizabeth is crowned, Mr Cromwell, you and I shall begin our true work. There is much that is wrong in England. Let us make it right." She pauses, and moves a rook, "Checkmate."

* * *

The rooms have been hastily redecorated in the years since her own tenure here. There is no carpet, so instead sheepskins have been scattered across the wooden floors, while tapestries have hastily been extracted from the stores in the nearby Wardrobe Tower and hung across those parts of the walls where there is no wainscoting, and the plaster is cracked - and a little looser than most would like.

Elizabeth is leaning out of a window, looking out at the cobbled lane below that stretches the length of the Palace wing, leading from one of the outer gates up to the great Conqueror's Keep, invisible behind the building in which they are residing. These rooms, designated 'The Queen's House' after her residence prior to her coronation, stretch the length of the wing upon the first floor, from the great Wardrobe Tower to the north, to the Lanthorn to the south. Beyond the path is a stretch of lawn that spreads to the curtain wall, where a pair of magpies squabble over some matter or other.

Anne thinks back to those days when she occupied these rooms in just the same circumstances - a Queen awaiting her crown, and only a day from receiving it. It had not occurred to her, when she departed the Tower in a golden litter, her husband at her side, that she would be regarded with so little love by the people. Indeed, even though there was little expression of delight or joy as she passed, and few seemed to return her gentle waves from her seat, she had persuaded herself that it was merely that they were tired - that they were burdened by the weight of their working lives. Any reason other than that they despised her for supplanting their beloved Queen Katherine. Could they not see that her time was done? That she was not favoured by God? She was a widow who married her late husband's brother - in defiance of God's holy law, no matter how many dispensations were granted to make it happen. And thus there was no son from their union.

Perhaps some might say the same for her - as she only has Elizabeth; but there was always the chance for more babes from her womb, for she was younger than the dried up old mare Katherine. It was a cruel accident that robbed her of that opportunity - but also one that brought Elizabeth a crown.

Being forced to accept that her pretences were exactly that has been a harsh lesson, but she knows that all lessons have a purpose, and thus she must uncover that purpose to learn from it. Elizabeth is not the son that England desires, but she is instead a sun - a glowing hope crowned with the red and gold locks of her line, and her youth shall grant her many years to bring England from its old ways into a golden age.

There are few of her women present, but Margery Horsman and Jane Rochford have made the journey, granted the honour of escorting her. The rest of the ladies have been assigned to carry Elizabeth's enormous train, while two younger girls, Jane Radcliffe and Jane Fitzwilliam, shall walk ahead of her as flower bearers. Lady Bryan is, of course, overseeing the preparation of Elizabeth's magnificent coronation gown. It is the garment in which she shall be conveyed to the Abbey Church at Westminster, but then she shall be undressed to her shift to be anointed, before another gown of equal magnificence is set upon her, and she is lifted into the great Coronation Chair to be crowned.

The work of the seamstresses has been astonishing: twenty five women working in shifts for ten straight days to produce the exquisite gowns that are not merely rich with cloth of gold, slashes of ivory and covered with lover's knots and seed pearls, but also perfectly stitched and constructed. The kirtles for each of the gowns were assembled from those that she herself wore at her own coronation, as they were thickly embroidered with colourful crewel work, and match the golden overgowns to perfection. Admittedly they have been constructed from some of Anne's own gowns, for there is no time to assemble one from scratch - but they are nonetheless of the finest fabrics, and more than appropriate for a Queen awaiting her crown.

She turns again to watch as Elizabeth laughs at the magpies, her own throat thick with unshed tears. God have mercy - she is so young…too young to carry such a burden as this. Her father is dead - and her mother is surrounded by enemies who do not wish to allow her to rule without their interference. Unless she can hold the Regency, then her daughter shall lose her future - and possibly even her life. Taken unexpectedly ill…such an easy thing to happen even to a child of wealth…

"Where is Mr Cromwell, Mama?" Elizabeth may be small, but she has already learned the identities of those who are of most importance to her reign.

"He is at his own house, my precious." Anne swallows down her tears and forces herself to smile, "He lives barely a mile from this very fortress. There is no requirement for him to be with us this evening."

"Shall he be in the procession?"

"Most assuredly, Elizabeth. He shall be your Lord High Treasurer, so he shall be foremost amongst your Council, and shall ride before your litter. Tomorrow you shall rest at your palace of Whitehall until the next day, whereupon you shall have four great lords to carry your canopy of estate, and all of your Guards shall escort you to the Church."

She knows all of this, of course, but it delights her to talk of it, and she has done little else for the last two days. But Anne is not blind to her daughter's moods, and she knows that at least some of Elizabeth's chatter is driven by fear. She is not yet three years of age - but nonetheless she has a fair understanding of what lies ahead, and that it shall constrain her for the rest of her natural life.

She holds out her arms to her child, who runs to her; and abandons her excitement, "Mama, I am frightened." Her voice is no longer bright, nor excited, and Anne sees the tears beginning to fall.

"I know, my dearest darling. I am, too. But we have each other, do we not?"

"Yes Mama." Elizabeth hugs into her gown tightly.

"I promise you that I shall give my all to protect you, Elizabeth. I shall be with you, and I shall teach you all that you need to learn to be a Queen. For you shall be a magnificent Queen: you are my daughter, and your father's daughter too. And - most importantly of all - you are my darling girl, and I love you. More than all the fish in the sea, and all the shells on the beach, and all the birds in the forest."

The child giggles through her tears, "I love you too, Mama."

"I know you do. Now, to bed with you, my precious Elizabeth. Tomorrow shall be long, long day."

* * *

Cromwell sits astride his calmest horse, a bright chestnut jennet who is not likely to be startled by the crowds: he has quite enough to think about without being obliged to control a nervous beast. Today, he has no task other than to ride in the procession - and tomorrow to walk to the Church; and it is only thanks to his presence upon the Council that he is permitted to sit in the Quire to watch the coronation, as he has no noble rank. Beside him, Rich soothes his bay gelding with a gauntleted hand, and they watch as Norfolk rides back and forth, ensuring that all is prepared before they move off. As Earl Marshal, it is his responsibility to do so, but his intention is greater than that - he wishes for no mishaps that shall make him look incompetent.

Elizabeth's journey shall be undertaken seated upon a litter carried by four strong guards, while the lords of Suffolk, Sussex, Southampton and Arundel shall carry the canopy of estate over her. Anne shall ride immediately behind upon a white palfrey, while ranks of Gentlemen and Ushers shall follow on foot. To the fore, the men of the council - accompanied by ambassadors from England's allies upon the Continent of Europe - ride two abreast.

The journey they shall take shall travel through Eastcheap, past the great Cathedral of St Paul, down Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street to the Strand. At a walking pace, it would take but an hour - but they shall pause several times on the way for the Queen to view a sequence of allegorical tableaux that shall demonstrate that she is the daughter of the King, though her maternal line shall be carefully glossed over, partly for fear of how the crowd shall view her mother, but equally thanks to Norfolk's personal antipathy towards Queen Anne.

As he rides, Cromwell is relieved at the size of the crowds who have come out to see their new Queen. She is young, pretty, and wears her beautiful red-gold hair long and loose - and she has been magnificently calm throughout, which can only serve to show her in a good light. It has been a particular worry of his that she might be ignored - hence his careful instructions that the priests speak of her in glowing terms as God's chosen. It seems that the people of London have been convinced, for they have emerged from their homes to see her.

Better still, he can hear cheers, and shouts of encouragement,

"God save your Majesty!"

"God's blessings on King Harry's babe!"

There is no mention of Anne, fortunately, for that is hardly likely to be so welcoming. Instead, people look to their tiny Queen, and call out blessings to her.

"This is most excellent, is it not, Mr Cromwell?" He cannot remember the name of the man beside him - a new Ambassador only just arrived from Genoa who has had little opportunity to do much more than present his credentials.

"It is, Excellency." He agrees, "Her Majesty the Queen is young, and shall offer England many years of diligent service. It is our intention to prepare her to rule, and thus she shall be taught governance, foreign relations, common law and all that shall aid her in leading England away from the disasters of internecine war."

"That is a heavy burden for a child - and she is but a girl, is she not?"

Cromwell smiles, "She is the daughter of a King: a great king. She shall be guided by men of skill and talent, and supported by her Parliament. While the burden of rule shall indeed be hers to carry, she shall not be obliged to do so entirely alone."

The procession pauses again as Elizabeth watches another of the tableaux upon the route, and he looks up at the sky, where there are few clouds to interrupt the deep blue. Yes - God is smiling upon them; for even the weather is magnificent.

There are at least four more such tableaux to watch as they make their way along the processional route.Each, while allegorical in nature, is colourful and alive with music and dance to keep the tiny Queen from becoming bored.Thus she moves from scene to scene and is always presented with something new.Here, a small plate of comfits, there a cup of sweet cordial.Small posies from gatherings of children are now scattered all across her litter, and she continues to wave delightedly at those who greet her on her way.

From behind, Anne has little opportunity to see how her daughter is faring, but she is pleased to see that Southampton, who is closest to her, is watching Elizabeth carefully and occasionally speaks cheerfully to her as yet more children are permitted to approach with flowers.Despite being seated comfortably, this journey is a difficult one for a child so small; and she is relieved that, in spite of his loathing of all that is happening, Norfolk has not acted to bore Elizabeth into a tearful outburst.He knows full well that the crowd would take badly to it, and so would his Regent.His position is not sufficiently secure to risk his neck on such terms.

The crowds remain thick and delighted as the Queen’s procession reaches Whitehall, and more blessings are shouted as she disappears safely within the palace walls.As soon as her litter is no longer in view from the street, Anne abandons her position to the rear and pulls alongside Southampton, “My thanks you you, my Lord.I saw your kind care for her Majesty upon the route.”

“She is a fine young lady, Majesty - albeit somewhat tired.A night’s rest and she shall be well ready for her crown upon the morrow.”He turns and smiles, for Elizabeth has settled back upon her pillows and has already fallen asleep.

Anne aches to be permitted to lift her daughter from the litter; but instead calls across Lady Bryan, who has that privilege when they are in public.Mother she may be, but she is also the Regent, and as such cannot be seen to undertake such a menial task as carrying a child.

“Sleep well, my darling girl.” She whispers as Lady Bryan gently carries the drowsing Queen of England into the Palace, “Until tomorrow.”

* * *

The halls of the palace are vivid with scarlet and ermine as the Nobility of England assemble prior to escorting their Queen to her coronation, the jewels of their chains of office glistening in a bright morning sun that spills in through the windows. As Cromwell has no noble rank, he is not obliged to do so, and instead rejoins Rich, who is relieved to have abandoned his Ambassadorial partner from yesterday’s procession, "God have mercy, he was dull. Dull as ditchwater. When he spoke at all, it was merely to point out the painfully obvious. ' _Look, zat horse is brown_ ' _. 'Look, zat is a wery big dog_.' Had it not been likely to cause a diplomatic incident, I swear I would have run him through with my ornamental poniard in order to silence him."

Cromwell smiles, amused. In deference to their high offices of State, Norfolk has not been able to insult them by seating them in an inferior position, so they shall have an excellent view of proceedings. While they shall certainly look most out of place for their lack of robes, they are permitted to ignore the Sumptuary Laws that dictate the degree of fineness of their garments thanks to those Offices of State. Consequently, Cromwell is in a fine velvet doublet in a rich dark blue, over which is set a simarre in black taffeta, while Rich has opted for violet, slashed with sober silver-grey satin, and a black simarre trimmed with white fur. Each wears a chain of office, but carries no coronet, as neither is entitled to wear one.

Rich continues to complain cheerfully about his boring companion as they make their way downstairs. He is safe to imitate the man's thick accent, as the owner of it shall already be in the great Abbey Church of Westminster, where those of high estate have been granted the privilege of chairs in the nave for this occasion given the length of the ceremony to come. Only those who shall pass through into the Quire and Crossing remain at the Palace, from whence they shall process on foot, leading their new Queen to be crowned.

Rich’s impression is highly amusing now, as he has abandoned actual comments and is suggesting ever more ridiculous items that his companion observed, and Cromwell struggles to suppress laughter as they emerge into the Deal Yard where the procession is gathering to resume yesterday’s journey.

Rather than oblige the child to walk to the Abbey, four of the Queen’s guard stand at each corner of a richly upholstered carrying-chair.As they did yesterday, Suffolk, Southampton, Sussex and Arundel carry her canopy, though this time they are brightly clad in their robes, each with a page alongside carrying their coronets on a cushion.Again, Anne is directly to the rear, equally robed, while Cromwell and Rich stand behind her, with the rest of the Council to their rear.

As Cranmer is already in the Abbey, awaiting the Queen, Elizabeth’s personal chaplain leads them off, following a large processional cross escorted by a mounted guard, though those who are on foot follow the route of a fine wool carpet that has been laid upon the road.The crowds have assembled again, and Cromwell has no doubt that, as soon as they have passed, the entirety of that carpet shall be torn to shreds by those who seek a souvenir of the event.Thank God they shall move from the Abbey to Westminster Hall - and the ruination of the carpet shall not be seen by those who have paid for it to be laid.

Once inside the great Church, they are seated upon benches in the Quire, while little Elizabeth is escorted away to the Chapter House, where she is to be anointed by Cranmer in the presence of her mother. Anne herself is resplendent in Royal red, a gold and black French hood crusted with pearls enclosing her elaborately braided and styled hair, and she follows her daughter slowly, as Elizabeth's legs are too short to enable her to stride easily in her heavy, golden gown.

The only man awaiting her in the Chapter house is Cranmer, who is equally magnificent in an ivory silk cope thickly embroidered with gold thread, and decorated with appliqué in gold tinsel. The remaining people in the great space are the Elizabeth's women, who shall assist the Queen as she disrobes to her shift to allow the Archbishop to paint crosses in holy oil upon her forehead, upon her hands, and over her heart.

As Cranmer pours the oil from a blue-glass Ampulla into the ancient oil spoon, Anne feels a sense of pride, mixed with sadness, as her tiny daughter accepts the strange rituals without fear or complaint, before she is dressed again in another restrictive garment of heavy gold fabric and thread, though her head is left bare of adornment in readiness for her crown. She is far too small to wear the supertunica that was worn by her father, so they have eschewed that element of her regalia.

Lady Bryan and the two young Janes escort her into the Crossing, where a set of upholstered steps have been set before the enormous Coronation chair so that Elizabeth can seat herself unassisted. Her hands being far too small to support the Orb and Sceptres, they shall be given to her while she makes the promises that they signify, before being held beside her by her companions; Jane Fitzwilliam holding the Orb, and Jane Radcliffe the Sceptre.

Anne is seated in a grand chair upholstered in red-velvet with gold trim, and watches with pride as her child vows to serve her nation and rule according to God's will. They have truncated the ancient ceremony considerably, at her insistence, but the vital elements remain lengthy, and so there shall be several hours to come.

Cranmer's homily - which he has insisted upon delivering - is also short, and Anne realises why he is so intent upon it, for it is the tale of the boy King Josiah of Judah, who came to the throne a child, but restored the rightful worship of God in the face of idolatry. He is not only marking Elizabeth's right to rule, but also ensuring that her right to be the head of the Church of England is established despite her sex. After all, no woman may be a priest, so, for a woman to be set ahead of all the male priests and bishops of England verges upon the scandalous.Better to emphasise that it is God’s will to set a Queen upon England’s throne from the start.

As the Archbishop lifts the great Crown of St Edward from the High Altar, Anne leans forward slightly, her hands gripping the arms of the chair very tightly. Across the crossing, in the seating of the Quire, she can see Cromwell watching with that benign calmness that is the very hallmark of his famed inscrutability, while Rich is craning his neck rather, as he shall not be able to see over the head of the peer in front once he dons his coronet. They have done all that they can to get to this moment - and, no matter what follows, once this is done, the opportunities to unseat her shall diminish considerably.

Cranmer approaches the chair, where Elizabeth is still sitting stock still, her little back ramrod stiff. Slowly, and with great ceremony, he raises the enormous crown high, before setting it down so that the ermine-girded base encircles her head - where he holds it for a few moments as the peers don their coronets, before exchanging it for the imperial crown, and finally setting the tiny delicate circlet of gold and pearls upon her head.

This done, Cranmer turns to Anne. This is, of course, a part of the ceremony for which there is no precedent, as there has never been a Queen Regnant in England before, and certainly not one so young. That there is a Regent that is also female has never been seen - and Cromwell was quite determined to include a second crowning in the ceremony to ensure that everyone is left in no doubt that Anne shall not retire quietly and leave her child in the hands of men.

"I, Anne the Queen, do most solemnly and truly swear that I shall protect the Realms of England, France and Ireland, and I shall uphold the laws of the Kingdoms there stated, as Regent in the stead of Queen Elizabeth in her years of minority. Also, I swear that I shall, upon the coming of age of said Queen Elizabeth, Queen of England, France and Ireland, defender of the faith and in the earth supreme head of the Church of England and Ireland, grant back to her the crown thereof, so help me God."

From his seat, Cromwell looks across at Norfolk, who has seated himself alongside Wiltshire. The faces of both men are stony and cold, as they watch their hopes of power faltering and dying in the face of the Queen's vow. It is very hard not to smirk.

In response to her vow, Cranmer fetches the formal Crown that was made for Anne after her coronation, and sets it upon her head.

It is done. Queen, and Queen Regent.

* * *

The new Queen Elizabeth sleeps peacefully in her bed at Whitehall, safe from the hideous boredom of being obliged to accept the fealty of her Lords. Her mother has instead taken on that burden, sitting for three hours while a succession of lords and gentlemen have stood in a long line, waiting to approach and kiss her hand.

_How Norfolk hated that_ , Anne smiles to herself, enjoying his look of discomfiture as he was obliged to bow before her and kiss her hand. She has abandoned her heavy red robes, exchanging them for a soft, loose gown of crimson damask, her sore feet now in sheepskin slippers, and she sips at a glass of sweet wine, a plate of cherry comfits at her elbow.

"What is to be done now, Majesty?" Jane Rochford asks, emerging from the great closet where the gown has been re-hung, "If you would like I can play for you?" she looks at the virginals against the wall.

"I should like that, Jane; but I think that I require silence for a time. Today was rather riven with noise and trumpets. Tomorrow, perhaps? I have been given a set of interesting ballads for two voices, and I should like to try them."

"With pleasure, Majesty." Jane smiles, then turns as Matthew enters.

"Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without, with Mr Rich."

"Thank you Matthew, show them in. Jane, could you stay, please? I think I am somewhat underdressed to receive visitors, so a chaperone shall be required."

Both men have also changed, though in their cases, it is back into their more habitual garments. Each bows as Lady Rochford fetches chairs, and dispatches Matthew to bring more glasses.

"A long day, Gentlemen," Anne says, seating herself so that they can do likewise, "but a good one, I think. The next months shall be hard - believe me I have no illusions over that - but we have made a visible statement of Elizabeth's legitimacy, have we not?"

"Indeed we have, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, accepting a glass of the sweet wine, "I am pleased to advise you that the crowds that gathered were delighted with her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, and even now the people of the City are celebrating - even those who do not have access to the wine fountains and free victuals."

He has promised never to lie to her, and is grateful that he has not been required to do so, for the crowds have indeed been most joyful: far more so than they were for Anne's coronation. They were most assuredly right to portray Elizabeth primarily as her father's daughter.

"How long, do you think, before we shall have to begin repelling rival claims to Elizabeth's throne?" Anne asks, after a long pause, her expression rather distant. She is as aware as they that the coronation was the simple task. The true difficulties are yet to come.

"I suspect it shall not be more than a few days." Cromwell admits, "Norfolk has done what he has done with the sole intent of keeping his dignity intact - but that is all. Now that he has relinquished his obligation upon that front, he shall look to removing you and stepping into your place at the first opportunity. If he does not, then I consider it likely that others shall make the attempt, either to make themselves Protector, or to set another upon the throne in Elizabeth's place."

Anne looks at him, her expression vicious, "There is no other!"

"On the contrary, Majesty. There are two - and while one is without doubt a bastard, the other's illegitimacy is not recognised by all parties. His Late Majesty was intent upon securing the boy's legitimacy, and it was only his death that ended our work to achieve that aim. If others stand with him, he may gain sufficient support to circumvent that barrier to his rule - and perhaps even look to Rome for support on the promise of restoring England to subservience to the Pope."

"That shall _never_ happen." She has not forgotten the vile names that she was called by the priests and legates of Rome.

Rich looks a little nervous, "Whether or not he succeeds, there is still the Lady Mary." He knows how _that_ shall be received, "Not all parties have accepted the invalidity of her mother's marriage, and thus there are some who might well look to her, regardless of all that we have done."

For a moment, both men fear that she might lose her temper; but, with a visible effort, she calms herself, "Mary shall never rule this Kingdom, Mr Rich." She says, firmly, "It is against God's will, for she is a bastard, and thus her claim is not valid."

"Of that, we are aware." Cromwell answers, "But we cannot ignore the unfortunate reality that there are some who do not agree with that. Thus we must be ready to answer any who make a claim upon her behalf, whoever they might be."

Anne closes her eyes, "After such a day of triumph, I had hoped that we might have at least a short time of respite."

"Perhaps we might." Rich offers, "We have laid strong foundations, and our enemies must find some means of subverting laws that have been passed by Parliament, and sealed with the late King's Great Seal prior to its destruction. Such foundations cannot be overturned in a single night, so we have the advantage; and our work from this point must be to shore them up, so as not to squander that advantage."

"Then we shall meet upon the morrow, gentlemen, and consider how to ensure that we do exactly that." She smiles, a little more assured now, "I shall see you then."

They rise, and each steps forth to bow and kiss her hand. If she can trust no others, then at least she has these two. Or at least she hopes that she does.

"Thank you Lady Rochford, I think that I shall retire now, please call Madge and Nan to attend to me, you may retire."

"Yes Majesty." Jane curtseys and departs as bid, while Anne sits back in her chair to await the arrival of her requested ladies.

Yes, today was the easy time. Tomorrow, the true work shall begin.


	15. Death at St James's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and comments again - as always, they're greatly appreciated.
> 
> And now an unexpected player enters the game, though the consequences of that emergence are not what anyone expected...

****Cromwell looks over the papers that he has drafted, and nods with satisfaction. The most important foundation of good government is knowledge - a decision is not a good decision if it is made with only half the available evidence.

He looks up as Rich approaches, clearly nursing a headache, "I take it you celebrated most thoroughly last night."

Rich does not answer, but sits rather heavily. That in itself is answer enough.

"If your eyes are not too misted," he smiles, with absolutely no sympathy at all, "Perhaps you could consider the notes I have made. We must consider the Queen Regent's standing with the People of England - for the reflected glory of her daughter can only illuminate her to a certain extent. The late Dowager Princess is now gone, and thus memory of her shall fade from the popular consciousness - but her daughter lives, and thus we must show the Regent in a new light."

"Mother of the Realm." Rich grunts, a little sickly, then groans, "God's blood, I am never going to touch spirits again."

"If you feel the need to empty your stomach, do not even consider doing it here."

"It is more my head than my gut." Squinting slightly, Rich peruses the notes. For most people in England, life is a short period of drudgery in hopes of a kinder world in heaven. He was fortunate, in that he was born to the Gentry class, but Cromwell is base-born, as are most. His ascendancy was gained through the benefit of sufficient funds to pay for an education that supported the hard work that followed. Others lack such fortune, and the notes he holds list a number of remedial measures, including a revision of existing poor laws, a system of proper apprenticeships, free schools for young boys. There are even suggestions for infirmaries to replace those of the Religious Houses - as it seems that he is intent upon continuing the closure of such institutions.

"Are we truly to continue the closure of the religious houses?" He asks, a little tentatively.

"Given that such places preach poverty to those who have nothing, while they decorate their churches with marble and gold, and dress statues in silken cloaks, I think it would be a service to the nation." Cromwell says, firmly, "Such hypocrisy is a sin."

Rich shrugs, and continues to read. On paper, it seems that the entire intention is to fund these reforms through the sale of lands, goods and riches from the large religious houses. That, in itself, seems perfectly feasible; but Rich has not got to where he is by failing to consider every potential angle, and he knows that such a thing as the closure of the religious houses shall cause a great rumpus amongst those who live around them. Despite the claims that the great Abbeys contain corrupt men who ignore the misery of those in their vicinity with the same casual indifference they apply to their vows, most view the enormous institutions in their midst with great pride, even if they are not permitted to enter to worship - including with the lay brothers. God forbid that they pass through the pulpitum to stand alongside the cloistered monks.

Unlike Cromwell, he is more pragmatic about matters of religion, and - if pressed - he would be forced to admit that he cares no more for the lives of the poor than the cloistered brothers do. But then, he has never been poor; and his commitment to religion has always been firmly of a Catholic disposition. He is what he is - and he has never pretended to be anything else. He has never been required to.

Every word on that paper, however, speaks volumes to him of Cromwell's motivation. The knowledge that the Abbeys sit upon vast stores of wealth in land, money and plate, while the people who live outside their walls scratch the most meagre of livings from what little land is granted to them is clearly an affront to a man who has known equal impoverishment in his life. But it also shows Rich that his colleague has become blinkered to the need for care in implementing the reform upon which he is so intent. If the Regent is equally intent, then his fear that their work to present her as a positive force for good in England can only be undermined should their first act be to trample upon the long-held beliefs of her subjects.

Looking up again, he can see that the Lord Treasurer is gazing out of the window, apparently lost in thought. For one normally so pragmatic, it appears that - where religious reform is concerned - such pragmatism has been abandoned. How strange that he, Rich, shall now be required to be the voice of reason.

"Forgive me, my Lord - but I think it wise that we be careful. Should we not institute the commission to investigate the state of England before we precipitate such an upheaval as this?"

Cromwell glares at him, but then seems to pause, as though he sees the sincerity in his colleague's expression. Rich is not being contrary - deliberately or otherwise - but is clearly concerned, and such concerns should be addressed, "Do you think it would be foolish to do so, Mr Rich?"

"If we are to consider the wellbeing of the Regent's subjects, then it seems monumentally foolish to act so firmly without having investigated whether it shall have a deleterious effect upon them. I think our priorities are mixed up - we must first cement the Regent's popularity with her Subjects, both for her security and that of the Queen; then we must work with Parliament to agree their rights and privileges in the new reign, and establish the commission. Only then should we consider the continuing work to close the religious houses. If we know how things lie in the Kingdom, we can then decide how we do so."

Cromwell sighs, and sits back in his chair. In the upheaval of the last few weeks, he has not thought about the work of reformation in relation to the large religious houses - and thus has had no cause to question his motives. It is only now that he is here, after all that has occurred, and so much has changed, that Rich's comments have cut through his determination to act, and he is wondering whether his colleague might actually be right.

He holds out his hand for the paper, and Rich gives it to him. He regards it for a moment, and then tears it in half, "You are right, Mr Rich. I have allowed myself to become too intent upon a single matter, and at the expense of others that are now more important. Forgive me." He reaches for a fresh sheet of paper, "I think it best that we start again."

* * *

Anne reads the paper carefully. In time, she shall have Elizabeth with her to read such briefings - but at the moment, her daughter is busily engaged in an imaginary scenario involving Lady Mille-Fleurs out in the Privy Garden, for it would be utterly beyond her to hold her concentration upon matters of this nature for more than a few minutes.

"What of the ongoing reform of the Church?" she asks, after a while. It was, after all one of the interests that she shared with Cromwell, who stands before her with his hands clasped before him, while Rich stands alongside and looks hung over.

"That is a matter that we have considered, Majesty." Cromwell advises, gravely, "But Mr Rich feels, and I agree with his view, that our priority at this time must be to introduce you as a positive force for good in England, and to secure your relationship with Parliament. Then, once we have established how we shall work together, we shall establish a commission to investigate the life of the common man of England - as you have suggested - and consider our activities from there. Believe me, Majesty," He continues, earnestly, "It is not my intention to abandon the work of freeing England from the chains of Rome; but first we must ensure that we build upon a firm foundation."

Anne looks at him, intrigued. Not only has he set aside a matter of great interest to himself, but he has admitted that it was not his initial idea to do so. It seems that he is quite intent upon his promise to be absolutely honest with her at all times.

He is, however, right. She is quite convinced that Henry would not have been so content to change his plans to such a degree; but then he was always impulsive, and convinced that if he believed it to be right, it was. She, however, intends to be less impetuous, and far more careful. Now that she has been obliged to accept that, far from being loved, she is hated by the people of England, she knows that if she is to win against her Council, she must win over her subjects first.

"They are looking for me to fail, Gentlemen." She says, quietly, "I do not intend to give them the satisfaction; but that end requires care if it is to be achieved. My late Lord refused to allow me to speak upon any matter of State, and guarded his privileges jealously; I intend to be more pragmatic - for if I am not, then Elizabeth shall be the one to bear the consequences."

Cromwell nods. That is, and shall always be, her first priority - to protect Elizabeth and her Crown. That one interest would sink an entire fleet of other motivations; no matter how dear to her they had once been. Yes, she still wishes to reform the Church - as he does; particularly as it is now headed by her daughter. If there has not yet been a Bull issued upon the matter, then it shall not be long before one emerges. Thus, the sooner Englishmen are wooed away from the gold-crusted, whited sepulchre that is the Roman Church, the better - as that Bull shall undoubtedly exhort all good Catholics to turn upon their new Queen. It shall, doubtless, also absolve them of the mortal sin of murder if they do it. Another vile act of hypocrisy, as far as he is concerned.

"It shall be harder for your Subjects to accept any demand from the Vicar of Rome if they love you, Majesty." He advises, "Besides, even those who still cleave to the popish faith are suspicious of any man who is not English. I am widely travelled upon the continent, but most English folk have never left the realm, and thus are insulated from those who live abroad. If you win the people, then they shall disregard a thousand bulls from a foreigner, regardless of whether or not they call him 'Papa'."

Anne resumes her perusal of the paper, and its recommendations. Yes, the most important order of business is to secure Parliament, as it shall give a clear message to the people that their representatives matter, and that their voices are more likely to be heard. Then they shall look to improving the lot of the poor. She has been shielded from the misery of those who have nothing for too long - and saw only those who came to her upon the feast of the Last Supper. How can she present herself as a motherly figure if she does not know how her children live? She would earn nothing from them but scorn - and she would deserve it, too.

"How much shall we offer Parliament?" she asks, after a while, "I am in agreement with you that we must accept that the men who gather in St Stephen's are of more importance than a mere gaggle of men who gather to argue with one another; but I shall not permit them to undermine Elizabeth's royal privileges. That, I must make clear at the outset."

"The first concession should be that no Act shall be made law without their consultation and debate, Majesty." Cromwell answers, "His Late Majesty would, if so inclined, entirely disregard the men of the Commons, and grant his assent to statutes without reference to them in any fashion, for Parliaments were previously summoned largely to vote monies towards the making of wars, and dismissed as soon as those wars were done. Matters that are of importance to the realm, and to your Subjects, should be set before them, and we must allow them to debate frankly and openly. The law as it stands is no more than an instrument of State - and it exists purely to serve the interests of the State. Thus it is possible to perpetrate quite egregious acts of apparent injustice - and yet not break the law."

He is not surprised to see that Anne is quite scandalised by such a concept; but it is, nonetheless, true. He knows it - for he would have used that exact method to destroy her, had the King not died before he could begin the process of doing so. But he does not tell her that.

She frowns, and he realises that she is beginning to understand exactly how close she came to her own destruction, "And, I presume, my own removal from the King's presence would have been achieved in such fashion?"

His silence is all the answer that she needs.

"Summon the Speaker, Mr Cromwell." She says, "Ask him to present to us the requirements of Parliament in any formalised agreement. It must - _must_ \- be a position that can be negotiated. I will not be dictated to - my intent is to look to the men of St Stephen's as advisers, not as masters. If they demand more than the right to consider all laws of the realm, then there must be a worthy reason for it, and it must not be at the cost of Elizabeth's prerogatives."

"But equally, Majesty," he ventures, "It must not be a mere artifice. If the men of St Stephen's feel that their involvement is cosmetic only, then they shall refuse to comply."

Anne glares at him, annoyed at his suggestion - but, again, did he not promise to be absolutely frank with her as much as honest?

"They would not dare to do so to my late Lord," She admits, a little tiredly, "but I am not he, and thus I must work infinitely harder to achieve half as great an effect."

"Once it is done, however," Rich muses, "I think it likely that they shall appreciate that you are not a weak, foolish woman after all, and we shall have achieved at least the first degree of respect to which you are entitled as Queen Regent."

"Which I can be most certain shall not be forthcoming from my uncle." She adds, with a smile, "So be it. I shall await the first offer from Mr Speaker, and we shall see what we must give in order to gain."

* * *

_My Lord Howard of Norfolk,_

_Forgive my presumption in approaching you, for it is of great concern to me that - as the only male heir of our late Lord Henry - my right of blood through the paternal line has not been recognised, nor has my more suitable age to rule been considered._

_As a Royal Duke, I am qualified both by blood and by virtue of my sex to rule this Kingdom, and I can thus protect the realm from the inevitable disaster that shall follow the setting of the Crown upon the head of a mere babe. Thus, if you are willing, I would ask that you stand with me as I make my claim to my late father's throne. There is no need for a Regent when there is a man who can be King._

_I would - of course - look to you as my first, and foremost adviser and Steward in recognition of our relationship through marriage. Thus we can restore the rightful rule of the realm to those who are fit to carry that burden._

_I do not require you to set out your answer to me in writing - but, if you are mindful to offer your support to my claim, I ride in the Park of St James each day two hours before the noon. Thus it would be mere coincidence, would it not, if a man of your colours might be present by chance in my vicinity. Should such a man appear, I shall know your decision. I shall await your answer, though I appreciate that it may take some time to arrange. Thus my offer shall remain open to you until the end of the month._

_Henry Richmond. Son of the Late King of England, France and Ireland._

Norfolk reads the letter again, wondering how it is that the King’s bastard has taken so long to make his move.All have known of the King’s death for weeks now, so why has the Fitzroy brat only emerged at this time?Unless he has been residing beneath a rock, of course.Perhaps the fool has been sick, or something.Either way, he has opted to emerge from the shadows now, and putting forth an offer that might resurrect a Ducal resurgence that Elizabeth’s coronation has felled.

The care with which the letter has been delivered to Whitehall assures Norfolk that such a possibility has not reached the sharp ears of the Corvid, and the offer it makes is tempting. With no legitimate male heir, and only women as an alternative, the prospect of England accepting a youth of sixteen years who was not born to a Queen, is perhaps not as unappealing as a loathed whore and her progeny. That the 'whore' is his own niece is meaningless in the face of the anticipated resumption of his former prominence. It would be a simple matter to dispatch her back to Blickling, brat in tow, and let England be ruled by those who are fit for the task.

He looks up as his steward enters, "Your Grace, the Earl of Wiltshire is without."

Returning his eyes to the letter, Norfolk nods, "Admit him."

As soon as they are alone, he looks up again, "I have an interesting communication here from the Duke of Richmond."

Intrigued, Wiltshire leans forward, "God above, he has taken a long time about it. Does he intend to claim the Crown?" In spite of himself, he sounds rather cynical - the youth does seem to have been rather indolent in staking his claim at such a late hour; but then he has not been back in London for more than a few weeks, so perhaps he has had no prior opportunity to do so.

Norfolk eyes the Earl with careful interest, preparing to gauge the response that his next words shall inspire, "That - and grant honours back to those who stand with him. Honours that were removed from them."

In an instant, a dark expression of pure greed washes across Wiltshire's face, "Say on."

"Assuming that he has the support of the council - and knows that he shall receive it - he shall look to Parliament for equal support, and stake his claim as the King's only male heir."

"And he assumes England shall accept him? There was no clamour for his presence when Elizabeth was paraded to the Abbey to have the Crown set upon her head."

"What does England know of him?" Norfolk retorts, "His father lauded him, that is true - but in what way were his honours paraded before the Subjects of the King? Regardless of his paternity, he was not the son of a Queen, and thus what was his worth when there was hope of a legitimate male heir? It would be no surprise to me if no one outside the Court knew much of his existence. Once it _is_ known, however, I think it most likely that Englishmen would look to him to save them from rule by a woman."

Wiltshire smirks, "Do you think that our loathed Lord Treasurer might have considered such a possibility? Now that he has his hands upon the power he desires, and - I am willing to wager - the opportunity to advance his _personal_ interests, would he notice or regard a hitherto forgotten youth?"

"We can lay the entire blame upon him - setting aside a male heir in favour of a child that can be controlled, and a woman whom he intends to make his lover. Thus Anne shall be obliged to condemn him, before withdrawing to the family estates with her child."

"She would never accept a man of such age as he, or of such base birth." Wiltshire snorts, "She has great pride, and that shall never permit her to give favour to him as you suggest it might."

"And is not a rumour sufficient?"

"To me, it is an affront."

Norfolk rolls his eyes; Wiltshire is keen to look to any means of gaining preferment - but not if it is at the expense of his own personal pride. Setting aside his own daughter for his personal gain is one thing; but suggesting his high-born progeny might share a bed with a base-born commoner? Absolutely not. They cannot even insinuate that she has offered such privileges to Rich, as he is married - and how much upheaval was caused by Anne's refusal to be any man's Mistress?

"In that case, in deference to your tender self-regard, we shall present it as naught but a power-play." He says, sarcastically.

"It matters not. I wish to regain control of the Privy Seal - and to witness the painful destruction of the men who took it from me."

"This is not a matter that I would trust to a servant; instead, I shall arrange to show myself in the Park at the appropriate time, though no words shall be exchanged. Once we have set out our agreement to stand with his Grace of Richmond, a means of communicating can be found, and thus we shall lay the ground for his reign." Norfolk smiles, unpleasantly, "It seems that we shall have our executions yet."

* * *

Seymour looks most pleased with himself, "Her Majesty, Queen Mary, is keen to know of matters at Court, your Grace. I have established a means for us to communicate thanks to the presence of my sister in her retinue, and I shall remain away from Court for the time being until such time as she has been crowned and returned to her Capital."

Suffolk reins in his horse, "Perhaps so, Mr Seymour. I had hoped that we would not be obliged to do such a thing as this - for the loss of the King was entirely unexpected. Madame Boleyn was losing her appeal to him, and we had come close to removing her baleful influence upon the Court - both her and her vile relations. With no legitimate male heir, her Majesty the Queen is the best hope of the Kingdom; assuming that the people would hear her call to them."

"Her bastardy was forced upon her after the fact, your Grace." Seymour says, blandly, "A false construct set upon her in the King's determination to remove her mother from his sight in order to accommodate the Boleyn whore. It is no more valid than that improper marriage - and the memory of her late Majesty Queen Katherine is still strong. Queen Mary is, above all, the only true heir to the throne. Were she to step forth from Hunsdon and raise her banner as Queen, the people would flock to her."

They are surrounded by trees far out in the Park of St James, but there is little in the way of undergrowth, so they cannot be seen from a distance - but, also, none can easily approach: consequently, Suffolk feels safe to comment, "If she is to do so, then she cannot afford to wait for too long. I have no doubt that Madame Boleyn shall take steps to buy the love of the people, for she already has the support of Parliament, and has won over a number of prominent lords of the Council. Regardless of his origins, the Lord High Treasurer is highly capable, and the Lord Privy Seal is hardly a fool either, while the Lord President has age and experience to look to. Between them, they are a powerful political force. Thus, I do not think that she shall be as ineffective a Regent as some of the men of the Council assume that she shall be. There shall be no ignominious failure, and thus the path for her Majesty the Queen shall be a steep one if she does not begin to move quickly - and introduce herself to her Subjects before Madame Boleyn has the opportunity to lay any foundations to purchase their loyalty."

"If you have advice for her, then set it down and I shall ensure it is delivered in safety. If time is of the essence, then we cannot afford to wait either."

Suffolk nods, "I shall set down a brief report of today's Council meeting. I have no doubt that we shall discuss the first steps of the new reign - once I know how the land lies, I shall be able to advise her of her own route through the new ground."

Seymour bows, "I shall await your word. As soon as the false Queen's plans are known, I shall deliver them to the true one, and we shall know where we stand."

* * *

It has been some time since Mark Smeaton entertained the Queen's inner circle, but he is tuning his lute in the corner of the Privy Chamber, while the Queen Regent is tucking her daughter into bed. Lady Rochford has settled herself at another rather fine muselar, its case more ornate and decorated than that of the instrument at Placentia, and a gentle coranto trickles from the instrument in response to her skilled fingers. The tune is familiar, and Rich is humming along quietly as he flicks through his papers. Cromwell would do likewise, but for his dignity, and the fact that he is hardly the finest singer at Court. While he appreciates the Arts, it is no longer his preference to perform.

The afternoon's meeting passed with little incident, or argument. Most of the councillors seemed willing to listen to the proposals for rule through good counsel and cooperation with Parliament, though Norfolk's expression said more than words ever could. They have not raised the matter of instituting charitable works for the poor at this point - it was enough of a concern that the council would reject the ideas for Parliament.

Several other of the Queen's ladies are also present, talking amongst themselves as they sip at small glasses of claret and graze from a light banquet of comfits and amusements. Margery watches the lutenist with a mildly scornful eye - for he is, once again, dressed far more richly than a man of his degree should expect to be, and the look upon his face is one of delight. Perhaps he is enamoured of one of the women in the room and wishes to impress her. She almost laughs aloud at the thought: no amount of satins and silks would change the reality that he is naught but a common musician, and a foreigner, to boot. What woman of gentle birth would have him?

Seated in a comfortable chair, Cromwell is also not blind to the behaviour of the musician, and his own view is very much the same. He has never chased any of the women at Court: his base birth and his age both tell against him, not to mention his quiet personal vow never to dishonour the memory of his long-dead wife. Such a foolish display - and for so little purpose. No woman would have him - no matter how much largesse he still receives from the privy purse thanks to the late King's favour.

Sighing, he returns to his own papers. While all seemed settled this afternoon, he is still concerned that they have heard nothing from either of the rival heirs to the throne. Richmond is an undisputed bastard and thus has no valid claim, as the intention to legitimise him came to nothing in his Majesty's determination to secure a son of the Blood from his new Queen - and any revival of that intention after Elizabeth's birth died with the King. That in itself, of course, does not preclude him from trying, so Cromwell has a man in the Duke's entourage to advise him should there be any attempt.

The news from Hunsdon is equally lacking. Certainly Seymour has worked hard to create a secure route for correspondence from the Lady Mary to any who would risk supporting her; and his sister Jane is the immediate contact. There is, doubtless, someone more prominent than a mere Seymour involved - and it is but a matter of time before his planted servant uncovers who that might be, and probably confirms his already present suspicions.

Emerging from her daughter's bedchamber, Anne smiles at the small gathering. There was a time when she was surrounded by adoring admirers; but the numbers present tonight consist solely of those that she is learning to feel that she can trust.

Lady Rochford finishes the coranto, and Smeaton immediately strikes up with a gaudy tourdion. He has not been present in the Queen Regent's company for many weeks, and seems embarrassingly eager to demonstrate to her that she has been most remiss in her neglect. Smiling to herself at his childishness, she approaches the table, and seats herself opposite the Lord Treasurer, "Madge, Mr Rich, I should like to play primero. Would you join us?"

They seat themselves at her request, while Smeaton moves on to a delicate pavane, "The stake shall be naught but a penny, with a threepence rest." She says, "I shall play for the pleasure of it tonight - not in hope of gain." Her expression is amused, for she is an excellent player. She has no idea how skilled her male opponents might be, but she does know that Margery is prone to losing, and thus it is better to offer as little opportunity for extensive financial loss as possible.

They talk of trifles as they play, concentrating instead upon the game. As she suspected, Cromwell's highly strategic mind makes him very capable, while Rich's devious nature and long practice at gaming has made him equally skilled. Poor Margery is being utterly trounced.

Eventually, the unfortunate lady in waiting pleads for release from her endless losses, and they end the game. Smeaton pauses for a moment, as a string is worn upon his lute and he must replace it, so Lady Rochford returns to the muselar, and accompanies herself as she sings a French _ballade_ ; one that is most familiar to Anne from her days at the Chateau of Blois. She recalls singing the counterpoint, and, as Jane starts the ballad again, she crosses to the instrument, and lifts her own voice in song.

It has been a long time since she felt so free of care, and for a brief moment her voice wavers slightly with emotion, but she completes the song and smiles at her accompanist, unaware of two sets of eyes trained upon her in admiration.

Cromwell's opinion of the Regent has changed more times than he can count over the last few years; but now he looks upon her with pleasure at her achievements. There had been a time when he had had two daughters, until contagion stole them from him. Oh, if only this magnificent woman were of his progeny - he would be proud to call her 'daughter'. Alas, however, she is not, but nonetheless he views her with a true paternal pride.

Struck by regret, he looks around the room at the others who are permitted into her personal circle, and pauses. There - he should be fitting a new string to his lute, but instead Smeaton watches Anne. There is a surreptitious nature to his scrutiny that suggests he views her with some form of love - though whether it be calf-love, lust or a deeper admiration, he cannot say with any certainty. It shall, however, bear watching; with the battles ahead, the one thing the Regent does not need at this time is any suggestion of carnality or scandal.

He is distracted briefly by the arrival of a steward with a message for him. Sealed with candlewax pressed by a thumbprint, he knows that has been dispatched with urgency, and he breaks the seal hastily.

"Majesty, might I speak to you in private a moment?" his voice betrays nothing.

She nods, "Of course, my Lord." She smiles at the gathering, "If you will excuse us a moment?"

Rich looks up enquiringly, then rises at Cromwell's nod, following them into the more private chamber beyond, "What is it?"

"It seems that our Duke of Richmond is intending to claim the crown after all." Cromwell says, quietly, "He shall base his claim upon his paternity, and his sex."

"He cannot do so!" Anne hisses, savagely, "He is a bastard - and nothing can overcome that!"

"You forget, Majesty," he answers, "the very Tudor line is based upon overcoming bastardy. Your late Lord's father came from illegitimate stock upon both sides of his line - and thus claimed his crown by right of conquest, for his blood would not serve that end. Richmond is a son of Henry; moreover, he is almost of age, and he is male. All that he lacks, other than legitimate blood, is the support of the law and Parliament - for he is not named in the succession, nor did his father's plans to legitimise him come to fruition."

"I will not have him take my daughter's crown, Mr Cromwell!" Anne's voice is dangerous, "If he thinks even for a moment to try, I shall bring him down!"

Cromwell eyes her, gravely, "I was under the impression, Majesty, that this reign would be different from the last."

"God's blood, if I must do that which I swore not to in order to protect my child, then I shall do it!"

Rich looks nervous, "I have destroyed lives, Majesty, destroyed them through perfidious behaviour. Do not take such a course - or you, as I do, shall find yourself frequently awakened by the shades of those who were condemned as a result of your actions."

His eyes are a little wide, and both Anne and Cromwell look at him in surprise. It seems, then, that he does not view his act of perjury against Sir Thomas More without regret, "I implore you, Majesty - for I found myself threatened by such determination, and turned to you in fear for my life. In finding myself endangered by that very perfidy that I deployed against another, better man than I, it caused me to think upon what I had done - and I cannot, _will_ not, do such things again."

"I had not thought you to be a man of conscience, Mr Rich." Anne says, rather more quietly.

He looks uncomfortable, "Until I overheard Norfolk, Wiltshire and Rochford casually discussing my brutal death as though it were naught but a trifling matter of little consequence, I had none. It is remarkable how one can be shaken into a more Christian frame of mind by such a betrayal."

"Then how do we see off this threat?"

"We have the foundation of law upon which our construction is built, Majesty." Cromwell advises, "Regardless of his age and sex, Richmond is the son of a liaison undertaken outside the bounds of wedlock, and that has always been the primary barrier to inheritance in England. If we must look to validity of birth, then the Lady Mary is a far greater threat than the son of Lady Tallboys - and she has been left in our wake. Mr Rich is right to object to an overt act upon our part against Richmond. It shall almost certainly cause more harm than good - as it did for the last of the Plantagenet line. Besides," He adds, "I am given to understand that Richmond's personal health is becoming precarious - he has developed a severe cough and has been observed spitting blood into kerchiefs for some time; though care has been taken to attempt to conceal it.I think it likely that his late entry to the fray is a consequence of that rumoured sickness, for it is hard to lay claim to a crown when one is abed in the throes of said sickness.“

Anne looks up, "You think him to have contracted consumption?"

"It is impossible to say - for I am no physician - but if that is the case, it is unlikely that he shall live long enough to offer much challenge to her Majesty the Queen. Thus I counsel you to let the matter lie - it may be that nature shall solve the problem for us.Indeed, if my suspicion that his illness has reached a point that he has been unable to stake a claim until after the coronation of her Majesty is correct, then I think it likely that it shall do so sooner rather than later.“

He sounds dreadfully clinical.

"Very well. That I shall do." Anne agrees, reluctantly, "We shall take no steps against Richmond, and shall meet any claim he makes, or that is made upon his part, with the power of the law. We have Henry's will and the Succession Act upon our side, for neither Richmond nor the daughter of the Dowager Princess are named by either document. Thus they have no valid claim in law."

Both men bow, and step back as she returns to the gathering.

"Is that true?" Rich asks, quietly, "Fitzroy has consumption?"

Cromwell nods, "It seems very likely; though, as I said to her Majesty, I am no physician and can speak only of that which has been observed by my man. If that is the case, however, why risk our reputations by destroying him when nature shall do it for us?"He sighs, “God alone knows what is in his head; no bastard has successfully claimed England’s throne in such fashion - so I can only assume he is attempting to grasp what he can, while he remains sufficiently strong to do it.”

“Or stirring the pot out of spite in the face of his own impending demise, perhaps?”

“Whatever his motive, he is unlikely to succeed even if he is not dying.That said, if our enemies are tempted to indulge his foolishness, then they may grant us the opportunity to close the door of power to them once and for all.”

Rich’s eyes widen, “And you think they shall?”

“That, Mr Rich, remains to be seen.”

* * *

A single chestnut gelding thunders across the open grassland of the park of St James, its rider seemingly enjoying the pleasure of the ride. To any casual observer, it is naught but a delightful gallop to stir the constitution prior to the midday meal.

Norfolk, however, has other matters of concern. Not trusting any of his servants to undertake such a task, he had hoped to come here sooner than this - but it has been hard to manufacture a reason to do so alone, so it has been near-on two weeks since he received the letter. At some point in the next few minutes, the Duke of Richmond shall emerge from the half-repaired halls of the Palace of St James, and shall see that his claim to the throne shall receive support. He hopes he does not have to wait for too long - the July sun is high, and already he is uncomfortable in his doublet and cloak. Such is the requirements of formality.

He hears the Palace clock, distantly chiming the tenth hour, and waits, expectantly, for the youth to appear. His horse fidgets at the wait, and he reaches forth to pat the animal's neck. Then he frowns. Where is the boy? Did he not promise that he would ride out each day at the tenth hour? Has he come out without being seen? Annoyed, Norfolk looks all about, but sees no one.

He continues to do so until the clock chimes the quarter, before cursing the inconstancy of young men and turning his horse to depart. So much for the son of the King - perhaps he has forgotten. In which case, that does not bode well for any attempted rule upon his part.Ah well, if nothing else he has exercised his horse.

There is a man in the Queen's livery awaiting him when he arrives in the Mews, and he dismounts to find himself face to face with Matthew, one of the Regent's senior Ushers, "What is it?"

"Her Majesty the Queen Regent asks that you attend her urgently, your Grace."

Norfolk rolls his eyes in exasperation, what does the wretched woman want _now_? To offer him another meaningless court post as a sop for the removal of his most valued one? Annoyed, he follows the young man up to the Queen's apartments.

Once he has entered the Presence Chamber, however, the atmosphere captures his attention at once. The Queen Regent is present, as are her senior advisers - the Corvid and the Rat. All look most grim, and he wonders if he is to be arrested. Hell - have they found the letter from Richmond?

"Your Grace." Anne's expression is softening a little, "Forgive our interruption of your morning - but I fear I must impart some grievous news."

A strange way to announce his arrest.

"We received word this morning from the stewards at the Palace of St James. I fear that his Grace, the Duke of Richmond, passed away in the night. We do not yet know the cause - for his physicians are yet to report to us. In the absence of his late Liege Lord, I, as his stepmother, have been passed these sad tidings. Therefore, I ask that you, as the father of his poor wife - now widow, kindly accept his mortal remains into the embrace of your family, and undertake the arrangement of a suitable burial. If you are content, his remains shall be released to you as soon as the physicians have prepared that awaited report, and he has been embalmed." She pauses, then continues with surprising sincerity, "Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss."

Norfolk bows, "Yes, your Majesty. I shall do as you ask." There is nothing else he can say.

Departing from the Presence Chamber, however, his temper is far less well governed, and he storms back to his own apartments in a fearful rage. Damnation! God's wounds! He cares nothing for the loss of the boy - a youth of little mark other than the burden of honours set upon him by an adoring father - but instead for a loss far greater. Without Richmond, there is just the Lady Mary left - and he had sworn he would not humiliate himself by attempting to govern _her_. It could not be clearer that the blasted Queen Regent has no fear of accusation of complicity - otherwise why else would she release the bloody corpse to him?

He had placed so much hope in that youth. Now, however, it appears that he shall have to start all over again and grovel at Mary’s hem to regain his lost power through that misbegotten brat after all.


	16. Counterstrike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote 'Shaun of the Dead' - Player Two has Entered the Game...Player Two has Left the Game.
> 
> But in doing so, he's opened up a juicy opportunity...

Wiltshire glowers, his eyes upon the gardens outside, but seeing nothing of the planting therein. No sooner have they found the opportunity to ally with a candidate for the throne who would give them all they want - and more - than he is dead. Worse, all of the evidence proclaims that it was a natural cause; for the youth had begun to sicken some months ago, and no poison that he knows of can replicate such a congestion of the chest. And he should know, should he not?

God's blood, Norfolk has proved to be a hopeless conspirator - it seems that his capabilities are expanded entirely by those who aid him, whether it be his fellow plotters, or the intended victim. It was, after all, hardly a challenge to bring Wolsey down when the man had made it so easy for them. No - against a politician as capable as Thomas Cromwell, Thomas Howard could never hope to win. Not unless the man is considerably compromised - and he is far too well established to make such an error.

There is no choice - if he is to win back all that he has lost, then he must be able to act with a free hand. Norfolk's self-regard is built upon his position as the foremost nobleman at Court, and thus he is utterly unable to act with the devious viciousness that this battle is likely to require. God knows that Katherine's brat shall never, ever permit him to even enter her presence, much less sit upon her council. Thus he must remove the Regent, and step in as Lord Protector. He is after all, Elizabeth's grandfather, and that familial relationship shall qualify him to do so far more than a conceited Duke.

He looks up as Rochford enters the chamber, "I hear rumours, Father." He announces, as he approaches, "The body of Richmond has been interred with as little ceremony as possible, and naught but two retainers witnessed the burial."

"That is hardly of any interest to me." Wiltshire snaps back.

"There is more." Rochford comes to stand beside him, "The word is that young Mr Smeaton has the most fearful calf-love for my sister - and has spent enormous sums upon garments to impress her."

Wiltshire turns, "He has the money to do it. His Late Majesty valued him to such a degree that even now he is paid far more than a man of his station is worth." He reminds his son.

"His Majesty would not have appreciated the lust."

"So you think he shall serve as a rumoured amour?" There is a tinge of cynicism to Wiltshire's voice, though Rochford fails to notice.

"Most already consider her to be a whore, so who would think it to be false? Her reputation would be in ruins, and thus we would be free to oust her, establish a Lord Protector for Elizabeth, and grant the Duke his vengeance against his enemies." Rochford looks quite pleased with himself at the idea.

Wiltshire shakes his head, "No. I would not countenance such a stain against my name. Besides, her pride is too great to accept such an approach from a lowly creature as he. Even were she to share his foolish feelings, his origins are too low for a woman of her rank. She has been the wife of a King - what is a court musician in comparison to that?" He looks off into the distance, and scowls - clearly thinking of another matter.

"What is it?"

"I am coming to the conclusion that my brother-in-law is becoming more a hindrance than a help. His failure to grant the late Duke of Richmond a fitting burial has dimmed his reputation amongst the Council, for it makes him look petty and resentful. I think that her Majesty might be most dismayed to discover that Norfolk has plotted against her, and it would most assuredly sit well in her mind given the manner in which he has dealt with the funeral of the youth." He crosses to a small coffer, unlocks it and removes a sheet of paper, "His engrossment in arranging to meet with the boy was such that he failed to notice my retention of the evidence."

Rochford's eyes widen, "You would present that to the Regent?"

"God no. She would be immediately suspicious. No, I shall allow it to fall into the hands of one of the ambassadors. Cromwell shall discover it immediately, as he has spies who watch over them."

"And you think that he shall believe Norfolk to be so careless?"

Wiltshire smiles, nastily, "If it shall get Norfolk from off his back, shall he care?"

* * *

"This is most helpful list, Lady Bryan. I am told that Mr Grindal has an excellent reputation, and Mr Ascham is equally well regarded." Anne is pleased, "I think I shall allow Elizabeth a little while longer to receive instruction from you, and from Mistress Champernowne. She seems to thrive under your joint tutelage."

"Yes Majesty. She has proved to be an excellent governess to her Majesty - and I am grateful for the assistance, as my work has become rather more busy in the last few weeks."

Sitting back in her chair, Anne leafs through a number of papers. The writing is dreadful, as Elizabeth's little fingers still lack the dexterity to wield the pen neatly, but the standard of the discourse is astonishing. Goodness, she is bright - perhaps she has inherited the joint intelligence of both her parents. A gift from her father additional to her red-gold hair.

And thank God for it - for the work that lies ahead for that little girl is truly a monstrous task, "Has Elizabeth been out to play yet?"

"Her ladies are fetching out appropriate garments, Majesty. Mr Browne hopes to introduce her to her new pony today."

"I should like to see that." Anne smiles, delightedly, "Could you call Madge, please? I shall require pattens, I think, if we are to visit the stables."

Lady Bryan looks surprised, "Are you not meeting with your advisers?"

She has forgotten that. Damnation. No - she will not miss such a delightful moment, "They shall come too."

The sun is warm, perhaps too warm for such heavy garments, but such is the requirements of propriety. Standing in the shade of the mews, Cromwell clutches his portfolio of papers in defiance of a rather determined breeze, and watches with interest as his young Queen waits excitedly to meet the Master of the Horse, as she knows what she is to be given.

Elizabeth fidgets rather, and her newly arrived governess, Mistress Champernowne smiles as she chides her for her impatience. Beside Cromwell, Rich is smiling indulgently, doubtless reminded of his own daughters, as he has several, and the Lord Treasurer is startled to find himself experiencing a stab of jealousy. How would his little girls have behaved had they been offered a pony to ride? Standing beside him, Anne also smiles, joyful at the opportunity to give her adored daughter a gift that she shall delight in.

All stops at the percussive sound of horseshoes upon cobbles, and Sir Anthony Browne appears around the corner, leading a small chestnut palfrey on a leading rein. There shall be no riding today - Elizabeth is not yet schooled to the sport - but today's introduction shall be followed by a fitting for riding habits, which shall leave the little girl in no doubt that lessons shall be forthcoming in short order.

She claps her little hands at the sight of the beast, "Oh, Mama - she is beautiful! What is her name?"

Anne steps out of the shade to join her, "She has no name yet, my precious; what would you like to call her?"

"I think I shall call her Orithyia." Elizabeth says, after some thought - a clear reflection of her recent study of Greek legends, "When can I ride her?"

"You shall need a saddle, Elizabeth, and riding habits, for you must be properly dressed. Mistress Champernowne shall escort you back to your apartments to meet your dressmakers. When the habits are ready, Sir Anthony shall help you choose a saddle, as it must be correct both for Orithyia, and for you."

She pouts a little, but accepts the inevitable, "Yes, Mama. Thank you - she is wonderful."

"I am glad that you like her, my darling." Anne crouches before her and kisses her upon the forehead, "Now, inside with you, I must meet with your advisers."

As she turns to watch her daughter's departure, she sees a look of painful regret, quickly suppressed, upon the Lord Treasurer's face. She remembers his telling her, years ago, of his own two daughters, taken by sickness when they were still young - and now he has been obliged to watch as she indulges her own child. God above, how fortunate she has been, "Come, Gentlemen, there is a small arbour in the privy garden that is shady and shall serve well for our meeting. I shall have some wine brought out for us."

The promised arbour is a large frame upon which is trained vines and other trailing plants that provide fragrant shade from the warm sun, while offering a modicum of privacy without concealing the occupants. Seating himself, Cromwell burrows into his papers and retrieves the document of interest, "I have had a communication from Mr Wingfield setting out Parliament's position in relation to your offer, Majesty."

"And?" she asks, reaching for it. As she scans the text, she takes in the requested privileges. To her surprise, Humphrey Wingfield has been remarkably diplomatic. Being an intermittently gathered institution that is called, and dismissed, by the Crown on a largely arbitrary basis, the powers of those who attend are inevitably limited solely to when they are in session. Thus he has asked that they be called more frequently, and for longer sessions. That they are granted the right to debate and approve all laws made in the realm, though the final assent shall remain with the Queen, furthermore, the system of taxation must be reformed and modernised - additional to the subsidy introduced by the late Cardinal Wolsey.

"They do not seem to be intend upon eroding her Majesty's overall authority, Majesty," Cromwell advises, "My concern was that they might demand the right to approve your Majesty's appointments to your council, and make those councillors accountable to them, rather than to her Majesty the Queen. Thus far, however, they have not. Equally, their requests over taxation relate solely to reform, not control of expenditure by the Royal household."

"Clearly they are wise enough to know how far they can set their demands, Mr Cromwell." Anne smiles, "How do these proposals stand alongside your own plans for reform?"

"These could run easily in harness with my own intentions, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "I intend to continue my work to improve the efficiency of the departments of Government - with your consent, of course."

"And what of your views, Mr Rich? Are any of the proposals of concern to you?"

"Not at present, Majesty." Rich says, "I suspect that Mr Wingfield is aware that requests for a greater degree of authority shall be rejected. At this time, Parliament does not meet with sufficient regularity to achieve these objectives, so it may serve us to establish a process by which her Majesty calls a Parliament each year for number of fixed periods, during which time laws can be debated and taxation set. If that is established, then there is less danger of accusations that we have acted arbitrarily, and her Majesty's Parliament shall serve as a conduit between her royal person and her subjects."

She nods, "I think that to be wise. Please could you arrange a draft response to Mr Wingfield - and a report to me setting out your proposal for the periods during which the Parliament should meet."

He rises and bows, "I shall see to it at once, Majesty."

Anne watches as he departs, "Do you think yet that he can be trusted, Mr Cromwell?"

"As far as any man in this benighted place can be, Majesty." He smiles at her, "Even I."

"I trust you." She says, quietly, "More than I trust any of my own kin."

Cromwell looks at her more closely. In spite of her cosmetics, he can see dark circles under her eyes, and her complexion is dull. She is heavily burdened, and seems so bereft of any to whom she feel safe to turn that she looks to him - a base born commoner of dubious political reputation - as a mentor. His spies have alerted him to the machinations of Norfolk and her father; in their determination to gain control of Elizabeth, they look to remove her and shut her away from her child. Her own relations are amongst her most implacable enemies.

In an instant, he is angry; God's wounds - they do not deserve her! She is intelligent, capable and strong - a woman who can lead the nation until her daughter is old enough to do so; but they do not want her to be so. Were she _his_ child, he would be proud of what she has become.

But then, he is not a grand Lord looking to become a Lord Protector - and he is aware enough of his own foibles to know that, were he in that position, he might not look upon her so kindly either.

"I would jest over such foolishness, Majesty." He admits, "But I am grateful for your trust - and I will swear to you again, should you wish it, that I shall do all in my power not to betray it. I have always sought to give my service to the one who wears the crown, and to the best of my ability. You wear the crown, and thus that service is yours to command - and shall remain so for as long as you wear it."

Anne's smile warms, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell. I think that I shall be able to weather all storms, for you are beside me as my coxswain. And I am grateful."

He rises to his feet, and bows before her, "To the end of my days, Majesty."

"I shall hold you to that."

* * *

To describe Eustace Chapuys as 'wily' would be the height of understatement. Keen, intelligent, utterly unscrupulous and loyal to only the very few, he regards the letter before him with interest, "And you say that it was found in the midst of burned papers?"

The anonymous steward nods, "Yes, Excellency. His Grace was in the process of burning a number of documents; but he was called away, and I found this had fallen behind the main body of the fire. It was a simple matter to extract it with the poker."

Reading it, Chapuys smiles, "Most careless of him. Particularly to retain something so clearly treasonous."

"Hence the hurling of it upon the fire, excellency." The steward smiles back, "His aim has always been most poor."

Pleased, the Imperial Ambassador drops a small leather bag in front of his informant, "I think this is worth the contents of this purse. I think my Master would find this most useful - as would another individual of my acquaintance."

Snatching up the pouch, the young man bows hastily, and departs.

Sitting down at his writing table, he reaches for a sheet of paper, and sharpens his quill.

* * *

The offices are empty of clerks, and even Sadleir has departed. Only Rich remains, and sits quietly at his desk, working by the light of a single candle.

His presence is of no concern to Cromwell, as their joint enterprise to advise the Queen Regent has brought them into a partnership that relies upon trust - always something of a rare commodity in their past dealings. This evening's activity is perhaps his most overt gesture of faith yet, as he is awaiting the report from one of his many planted men, who has alerted him to the finding of a document that shall send shockwaves through the Council.

The man arrives shortly after the hour of nine, and pauses only to set a packet upon the Treasurer's desk before departing.

From his position at his desk, Rich fails to discern the identity of the spy, but the interest with which Cromwell reaches for the packet suggests that the delivery might well be worth waiting for. Rising from his chair, he crosses to join his colleague, "What is it?"

"At this moment, I do not know." Cromwell unfolds a paper, slightly burned here and there, "It seems likely that someone rescued this from a fire."

"Where has it come from?" Rich is immediately intrigued.

"From Chapuys." He smiles back, a little mischievously, "Not that he knows it. His Secretary has, shall we say, rather _exotic_ preferences of a carnal nature that would certainly end his career, if not worse. I became aware of his behaviour some years ago; and, in exchange for my silence upon the matter, he grants access to all that his master sends from the court prior to its dispatch to the Emperor. If it is of little account, it continues upon its journey; if it is interesting, I take note of it. The most interesting items have been known to be lost _en route_." Smirking rather, he starts to read.

"What?" Rich can see the look upon his face as he takes in the words upon the paper, and is immediately distracted from further questions about the Secretary's unmentioned vice.

"God above…"

"What?" his voice is a little louder now.

"It is the letter from Richmond to Norfolk - seeking his aid in staking a claim to the throne. I knew of his approach, yes; but I had not seen the original letter. His writing is quite distinctive - it was most certainly from his hand."

Rich's eyes widen, "No wonder Norfolk wished to destroy it."

Cromwell, however, frowns, "Then why wait so long? While this is not dated, it seems strange to me that he would have retained it after the young man died. Were I in possession of such a deadly missive, I should have destroyed it before the day was out."

"You think it to be a forgery?"

He shakes his head, "No; there is too much about this letter that proclaims Richmond to be the originator for me to think that. For reasons I cannot fathom, this has been held, and then permitted to emerge. Whoever let this loose, it was not Norfolk."

Rich nods, "From what I know of him, he indeed is too canny to be so careless. But who would have dispatched it to Chapuys?"

"Someone with much to gain; but equally someone who would be within Norfolk's confidence; no one else would know of its existence."

"Is there someone so privileged?" Rich scoffs, "There is only one that I can think of - and that would be Wiltshire."

He smiles, amused at such a ridiculous idea, only for the emerging laughter to die in his throat as he sees the look upon Cromwell's face, "Surely not?"

"Oh, I think it most likely. For all his plotting, Norfolk is no conspirator; he has always left the destruction of others in hands more capable than his own. Wiltshire is far less fearful of staining his hands with blood, it seems."

"So what do we do?" Rich asks, "I have no wish to play into Wiltshire's hands if it is his intention to remove Norfolk and step into his place."

"Nor do I." Cromwell admits, "I despise the prospect of being so used; though if I can rein in the Norfolk faction, then I would be a fool to let it by."

It is a singular dilemma. While it would be useful to dispatch Norfolk away from the court in disgrace, the presence of Wiltshire in his place would be tiresome to manage. For all his determination to regain his former place at the Council table, Norfolk is - mostly - held in check by his own personal pride, and would never stoop to the sort of behaviour that would be unbecoming to a man such as he. Why would he do such a thing when he has no need to? Until the new council was appointed, he had been granted immense power and prestige purely as a consequence of his station, and thus he has no practice at the worst acts that councillors perpetrate.

Wiltshire, on the other hand, has talent and wealth additional to his all-consuming ambition, but lacks the noble credentials of his brother in law. Thus his willingness to stoop to fearsome depths in order to make gains for himself is greater, and his experience at doing so more extensive. Norfolk has always remained aloof from such conspiring, preferring to allow others to take the risks that accompany it, and now he shall find that he is no more immune from it than any of the other great men that were swept aside at his behest.

But is it worth leaving Wiltshire with the inevitable sense of puffed up pride that he shall feel knowing that he has led the Regent's chief adviser by the nose? How to bring this to the attention of the Regent without showing his hand?

"If only there was a way that we could set the blame for this entirely at Wiltshire's feet." He says, eventually, "This letter in itself is no longer directly treasonous, given that the one who penned it is no more, and it is not in the possession of the named recipient. While he can - and shall - disavow all knowledge of it, the fact that it was not destroyed is powerful circumstantial evidence, and certainly it would give her Majesty the Regent the opportunity to remove a dangerous enemy by banishing him from Court. I do not think it wise, however to risk sending Norfolk to the Tower upon such flimsy grounds."

"Then give Wiltshire the credit for discovering it." Rich suggests, "You have people who do your underhand work all around the Court - perhaps there is a way to return it to the Earl's papers prior to a Council meeting, and thus engineer his discovery of it. If he is caught with it in his hand, he is hardly likely to confess that he is complicit, after all. He would equally disavow all knowledge of the conspiracy and find some excuse that shall save him while it condemns Norfolk." He has the grace to look a little embarrassed, "I would."

Cromwell considers the idea. It is certainly worth the attempt - for it would remove the tiresome Duke from the council, but also send a clear message to Wiltshire that he cannot expect them to fall for such a ruse as this. Neither Cromwell nor Rich have reached their positions at Court through being credulous and lacking in suspicion. To be so is to invite disaster, and usually death, too.

"I shall think on it, and consult with the Regent." He says, after a while, "I think it likely that such a contrivance shall be as transparent as glass - but if Wiltshire is given no alternative but to bow to it, then it shall serve."

* * *

Anne reads the letter, her eyes widening, "Do we know Norfolk's answer?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Richmond was too wise for that - he asked for a visual signal. Enquiries at the mews have elicited that the Duke took his horse out a quarter hour before the hour of ten upon the morning that the youth was found to have died, which suggests that it was his intention to grant that request. No other horses were taken out that morning, for no one hunted, so he would be hard put to explain his actions. While it is not conclusive, it is circumstantial."

"And it came to you via Chapuys?"

"Not according to his design." He admits, a little sheepishly, but then looks more serious, "The manner in which it reached him suggests that it was planted - it was too convenient a discovery. I think it likely that another party is looking to use me to achieve his intent."

Anne thinks for a while, "My Father." She says, eventually.

Cromwell looks at her, startled at her suggestion. He has come to that conclusion, but he is surprised that she has done the same with so little pause.

"You think me to be incorrect, Mr Cromwell?" she asks, eyebrow cocked, "Believe me, my father has no scruples in his determination to gain power and wealth for himself. He used me, did he not? I came to Court at his behest with the intention of being traded to a man in exchange for his title, but as soon as my late Lord showed keenness to woo me, he saw only what he could gain from a grander liaison. It did not please him that I would not accept the temporary state of mistress as my sister had done, for that would have resulted in rewards for him - but when it became clear that marriage was a true possibility, he demanded ever more from me in hopes to gain ever more for himself."

She smiles then, at his shocked expression. Only a man would be so shocked - for a high-born woman to be used so? That is only to be expected.

"He loved me once." She says, quietly, "I have fond memories of his kindness and the games we would play when I was a child. But at some point; I suspect the point at which I became marriageable, that love died and was replaced by acquisitiveness. Perhaps it is so for all women of my station."

"I am truly sorry, Majesty." He mumbles, not sure what else to say, "Power can be cruelly seductive."

"Thank you." The smile returns, though it is still sad, "I think we must do what we can to use this opportunity, as you are doubtless intending, but without playing into my father's hands."

"I shall think upon the matter. I suspect the most convenient way shall be to conceal it amongst Wiltshire's papers - or perhaps Rochford's?"

Immediately, Anne looks up, "Yes - that would be the better move. My brother is not so well able to conceal his emotions behind a mask of inscrutability. Thus were he to come across the letter, he would be hard put to hide it. That would serve our requirement to bring the suggestion of treachery to light, but also to warn my father that we are not to be trifled with."

"Mr Wriothesley shall be assembling papers for this morning's meeting. I shall ensure that this is set amongst those to be given to Rochford. As - to all intents and purposes - I am not responsible for the assignment of papers, Wiltshire shall be hard put to accuse me of planting it."

"Then go to." She says, her eyes cold, "If you will excuse me, I shall spend the intervening time in my daughter's company. I wish to remember what it is to be innocent."

* * *

The men of the Council are still not quite at ease with the presence of a woman at the head of their table, but none are fool enough to comment upon it. Norfolk has returned from Thetford, though his expression is still resentful at being obliged to pay for the funeral of his son in law, and he sits alongside Cromwell, as he cannot force him to step aside; a situation that does little to amend his temper.

Each place at the table has a folio of thick paper set upon it, which contain fair copies of the agreement with Parliament to secure regular sessions that shall be called by the Queen three times a year, that calls upon those who attend to debate and approve all laws to be passed in England, and also to debate and agree a reformed system of taxation further to the Subsidy - which shall serve to replace the ancient and obsolete system of fifteenths and tenths. That alone should keep them busy for the best part of a year, and so they shall hardly notice that their power is still limited, as they cannot control who sits upon the Council.

Being ever efficient and discreet, Wriothesley has penned the initials of each council member upon the portfolio he has supplied to them. Consequently, it was a simple matter for Rich to quietly slip the incriminating letter from Richmond into Rochford's papers, though he was not at all pleased to be asked to do it, for fear of being seen in the act. Trusted though Sadleir is, Cromwell does not wish to embroil him in the war of words to come.

Other matters are raised first, largely relating to diplomatic approaches, appointments of lesser officials and matters of foreign policy, as they can be dealt with and dismissed relatively quickly. Cromwell reports that, while there have been many raised eyebrows across Europe at the creation of England's first Queen - and her first Queen Regent without a King - so far none of the European Princes have issued any great objection to the prospect, nor have they shown any ill will towards England's tiny new Queen. There is no suggestion yet of any bulls from the Lateran Palace, but - he admits - that is likely to be so only because the Vicar of Rome is has not yet made the measure of the women who are now ruling England, or what they shall do over the future of the church.

"Then he shall not be obliged to wait for long." Sussex snorts, "For that is decided. We are free from under the heel of Rome, and I, for one, shall not be quick to demand we bow under it again."

Tunstall says nothing, but the scowl that peeps out between the purple of his zucchetto and his robes suggests he most certainly does not agree with such sentiments.

Suffolk is equally quiet, for he has nothing to say that shall not inflame matters. He suspects that the Pope is primarily waiting to see who shall be wearing the crown by the end of the year - after all, there is another heir, is there not? A loyal, _catholic_ heir who is recognised by most as the true and rightful daughter of the King and his First Queen. Should England turn to her, then they shall also turn back to the true faith, and thus bulls shall not be necessary.

Rather than allow matters to degenerate into a quarrel, Anne smiles, "Perhaps so, your Grace. That is a discussion for another day. We have, today, a greater matter to concern us. Mr Rich - if you would?"

Rich rises to his feet, "As you will be aware, we have been in negotiations with the Speaker of Her Majesty's Parliament, and, in order to effect good governance in the Realm, we propose a number of agreements with him pertaining to the calling of Parliament, its involvement in the making of law, and in the reform of taxation further to the subsidy instituted by his late Grace, Cardinal Wolsey."

In spite of his nerves, Rich continues to speak, taking care to ensure that his address is as dull and dry as possible. If Rochford is bored and distracted, then his reaction to the letter hidden in his papers shall be all the more pronounced. Fortunately, everyone is starting to fiddle with their portfolios to read the fair copies of the agreements and the briefing notes that were included with them, and thus they do not see that he has gone a little red, or that he is fighting to keep his voice steady, or that his hands are trembling a little.

It is such a simple, ridiculous ruse - but Rochford's reaction to the additional paper is immediate, for he had assumed it safely dispatched to Granada, and far away from those who might be damaged by its dangerous sentiments. He stares at it, his eyes widening, a sharp intake of breath catching the attention of everyone at the table.

"Are you quite alright, my Lord?" Anne asks, "What is it that you have read that perturbs you?" None need to know that she was prepared for this moment, and has been watching him like a hawk in anticipation of it.

"I…er…I it is nothing…nothing, Majesty." He says, hastily, attempting to screw the paper into a ball.

"Please - it must be something of concern. Show it to me - what statement upon it is the culprit?"

He cannot refuse her - not without causing matters to get even worse. His expression nervous, his complexion growing slightly grey, he complies, tossing the paper ball in her direction.

Her expression artfully intrigued, she unfurls it, and reads awhile, then looks up at Rich, who is still on his feet, "Could you read this aloud for the assembly, Mr Rich?"

Her tone is now very cold indeed.

Nervous, Rich takes up the letter, "My Lord Howard of Norfolk," he begins, slightly hesitantly, "forgive my presumption in approaching you, for it is of great concern to me that - as the only male heir of our late Lord Henry - my right of blood through the paternal line has not been recognised, nor has my more suitable age to rule been considered.

"As a Royal Duke, I am qualified both by blood and by virtue of my sex to rule this Kingdom, and I can thus protect the realm from the inevitable disaster that shall follow the setting of the Crown upon the head of a mere babe. Thus, if you are willing, I would ask that you stand with me as I make my claim to my late father's throne. There is no need for a Regent when there is a man who can be King.

"I would - of course - look to you as my first, and foremost adviser and Steward in recognition of our relationship through marriage. Thus we can restore the rightful rule of the realm to those who are fit to carry that burden.

"I do not require you to set out your answer to me in writing - but, if you are mindful to offer your support to my claim, I ride in the Park of St James each day two hours before the noon. Thus it would be mere coincidence, would it not, if a man of your colours might be present by chance in my vicinity. Should such a man appear, I shall know your decision. I shall await your answer, though I appreciate that it may take some time to arrange. Thus my offer shall remain open to you until the end of the month.

"Henry Richmond. Son of the Late King of England, France and Ireland."

Seated beside the intended recipient, Cromwell senses, rather than notices, Norfolk become very tense. The faces of the other council members are shocked at such a blatant approach by the young man, and his presumption in the face of his unresolved bastardy, given that no illegitimate child of a King has ever won the throne. Even Wiltshire is wearing an expression of surprise, and he stares at Rochford, as though scandalised.

"It is not mine!" Rochford demands, furiously, "I did not set it amongst these papers - it is a deception!"

"My Lord Suffolk." Anne's voice is like ice, "Please examine the paper - I believe you are acquainted with the handwriting of Henry Fitzroy."

His expression unreadable, Suffolk rises, and takes the paper from Rich's hand. After a considerable pause, he looks up. "Yes, Majesty. That is the hand of Fitzroy."

As a piece of evidence, it is - essentially - useless: as it is, in itself, not proof of treason as there is no suggestion that any action was taken in response to it. Nonetheless, the degree of guilt by association is high, and everyone's eyes are now upon the Duke, who glares at Rochford in return, "I warrant that it was intended to be sent to me - but, if I received it, where is my reply?"

"One was not demanded." Suffolk answers, quietly, "It would be a simple matter to enquire with the stables whether or not you took horse into the Park at any time, would it not?"

"You can prove nothing!" he snaps back.

"I can prove that the intent exists." Anne says, stonily, "For it rests in my Lord of Suffolk's hands. Why would his Grace of Richmond think you willing to stand with him to steal my daughter's Crown?"

"He was a young, impetuous fool!" Norfolk spits, "What the hell were you doing with that letter, Rochford? Do not pretend that it was not a deliberate act upon your part!"

Rochford reddens, "I did not place it within my papers - I knew nothing of it but what was spoken of to me!"

"Who spoke of it to you, George?" Anne leaps upon the unforced error, "When did you know of this? Why did you not tell me?"

"I…" he looks helpless - whatever he says now shall sound incriminating, regardless of what it is.

"And you, Boleyn?" Norfolk's eyes are vicious, "What did you do with it when I showed it to _you_? I set it in _your_ hands and saw it not again!" Such is his fury at Wiltshire's presumed betrayal, he seems utterly oblivious to his own unforced admission that he received it in the first place.

Wiltshire's expression is astonishingly bland, "I know nothing of this." He says, coolly, "It would be of no interest to me to support a King's bastard in place of my own granddaughter. That would be treason."

Cromwell fights to conceal his disgust. Not only is Wiltshire disavowing all knowledge of the letter, but he is allowing his son to be blamed as equally as his brother-in-law, "Forgive me, Majesty - but this has come as a surprise to me as it has to you. That his Grace would conspire against you is one thing - but my own _son_."

And again, Rochford's inability to hide his emotions betrays him, as an expression of shock and hurt crosses his face, "Father!"

"Enough!" Anne rises sharply to her feet, obliging everyone else to do likewise, "My Lord of Norfolk - you received a communication from a man who sought to steal my daughter's Crown - and you did _nothing_ to warn us of it. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that you did not attempt to provide the answer demanded. In spite of your initial denials, you have - before all present - declared that you received it; but at what point in time did you intend to speak of it to me? Would that have been before or after Richmond had drowned half of England in blood?"

His expression is savage, but it is not directed entirely at her. No, some of that venom is intended for her father - she can see it in the way that Norfolk's eyes flit back and forth between the other Councillors, and Wiltshire.

"I cannot have a man of such duplicity within my daughter's court. If you are not departed from this place by the day's end, you shall be arrested and escorted forthwith to the Tower. Begone."

For a few moments, it seems likely that he shall refuse, but the pressure of eyes upon him causes him to wilt somewhat, and he turns back to the two male Boleyns, "Do not think this is over. You are equally to blame for this, and I shall ensure that you pay for it!"

He rises from his seat with what little dignity he can still muster; then, turning upon his heel, he stalks out.

Wiltshire is not quick enough to suppress the vile smirk upon his face as Norfolk departs, and it does not go unnoticed, "It is of great concern to me that the letter was found within your papers, my Lord Rochford. Were it not for the requirement for your wife to follow you, I would demand that you also leave court, to remain away until it be my pleasure to recall you. As it is, know that it is thanks to your wife that you remain." Anne turns to her father and glares at him, "My Lord of Wiltshire, I am minded to commission a survey of all serviceable ships that can be called upon to form England's navy in times of War. I am appointing you to lead that commission in person. See to it. I expect to see your proposals and itinerary presented to the Lord High Treasurer two days from now."

Even Cromwell is surprised at that; in an instant, she has dismissed Norfolk, and obliged her interfering father to busy himself elsewhere for half a year at least. He would never have thought of such a thing - even had it been possible for him to carry it out. She has not dismissed Wiltshire, nor has she insulted him - instead she has given him a task that is of importance to the safety of the realm, so he has no right to complain.

_Well done, my Queen._ He thinks to himself, his heart swelling with pride for her, _Well done indeed._


	17. Interlude

" _Jouyssance vous donneray,_

_Mon amy, et vous meneray_

_La ou pretent vostre essperance._

_Vivante ne vous lesseray;_

_Encore quant morte seray,_

_L'esprit en aura souvenance._ "

Anne's fingers pluck lightly at the strings of the lute, accompanying herself as she sings. She cannot remember how long it has been since last she did this - entertaining herself with music from one of her most treasured possessions, her songbook.

A chanson by Claudin de Sermisy, she collected it when she was still at Blois, loving its text and the simplicity of the tune. The trickling accompaniment requires dexterity to play, but she revels in doing so, and is absolutely absorbed in the process of music making.

" _Si pour moi avez du souci_

_Pour vous n'en ai pas moins aussi,_

_Amour le vous doit faire entendre._

_Mais s'il vous greve d'etre ainsi,_

_Apaisez votre ceour transi;_

_Tout vient a point, qui peut attendre._ "

Nearby, her ladies embroider quietly, while warm sunlight streams in through the great windows that look out across the formal gardens. A few doors away, Elizabeth is busy with her latin verbs, overseen by young Mistress Champernowne, and - for just a short while - Anne feels utterly free and at peace.

She can recall singing this very song for Henry, _I will give you pleasure, my dear, and thus I will ensure that what you hope for ends well. I will not forsake you while I live, and even when I am dead, my spirit will still remember you._

_If you worry about me I no less for you. Love must make you understand. But if it weighs you down, appease your hurting heart: everything will be good for those who wait._

Does it matter that everything was not?

She waited - Lord, she did. Waited for God to bless their union with the son that Henry craved, and that she was so convinced she could give him. But there had been no son - any more than her predecessor had been able to give - and his desire to wait until that blessing came faltered in the face of a Seymour.

No - she will not think of that. There is no need to now - for the Seymours are no longer able to come to Court, and thus they are far from her presence. That chit Jane is doubtless being touted to other high born women as a companion in hopes of marrying upwards, illuminated in the rays given off by a brighter star than she.

Irked at herself for her thoughts, she moves on instead to another, brighter chanson, which can be accompanied as easily by her lute as by the consort of viols for which it was written,

" _Gentilz galans compaignons du raisin,_

_Beuvons d'aultant au soir et au matin_

_Jusqu'a cents soulz_

_Et ho!_

_A nostre hostess ne baillon point d'argent_

_Mais ung credo._

" _Si nostre hostesse nous faysoit adjourner,_

_Nous luy diron qu'il fault laisser passer_

_Quasimodo,_

_Et ho!_

_Ne payeron point d'argent a nostre hostesse,_

_Fors ung credo._ "

She can hear the ladies chuckling as she sings with a deliberate lack of finesse - it is, after all a drinking song - but the need to hear laughter is suddenly strong, for fear that she might shed tears instead.

Her father departed a week ago, his face like thunder as he was forcibly removed from Court thanks to the most ridiculously weak of ruses. While he succeeded in casting a shadow of treachery over his brother-in-law - which has resulted in a more-or-less permanent ban from Court, and a firm warning that any further attempts to unseat the Regent shall lead him directly to the Tower - he found himself stymied by his own daughter. He should have realised that, while she no longer trusts _him_ , she has other, better men to whom she can turn - and has done so. Thanks to their work, and her own wit, he must now spend the next half year or more traipsing from port to port, counting ships and crews. While it is, in itself, an excellent means of keeping him away from the centre for at least a short time, there is the reciprocal benefit of knowing exactly whether a navy can be commissioned should anyone view her daughter's kingdom with envious eyes.

Setting the lute aside, she turns to Margery, "Shall we walk in the gardens awhile, Madge? We have not done so in far too many days."

Smiling, Margery sets her embroidery hoop aside, "Of course Majesty. I shall fetch your cloak."

Their route to the Queen's Privy Garden is rather more circuitous than intended, but the passageways they are using are lightly travelled, and Anne is tired of being bowed to.

"How strange." She muses, as they walk slowly, arm in arm.

"Majesty?"

"There was a time when I loved to see men bow before me - I thought it to be a most delightful thing. Now, however, it seems to me to be a tiresome falsity, and I wish I could avoid it; for I am Queen - but I am also _not_ Queen, for the true Queen is my daughter, so I feel now that, when I am granted obeisance, I am stealing it from her."

"Better that than thinking that _she_ is stealing it from _you_ , Majesty." Margery smiles.

"God forbid." Anne agrees, "I have found over the past weeks that I am looked upon with loathing, and most men would truly believe that I would do such a thing, for they could claim that I did it to the Dowager Princess of Wales."

"Despite the invalidity of her marriage." Margery adds, loyally.

They move out into an enclosed court, surrounded by high, red-brick walls rising upwards for three floors - undercroft, main chambers and attics - the undercroft is, of course lit only by small lights, while the floors above have wide, leaded windows. There, she thinks, are the offices of those who operate the Government, and she looks up to see that she is right, for one of the windows is wide open, and she can see the Lord High Treasurer leaning out and fanning himself with a sheaf of papers.

"Do you not think that to be most unseemly, Madge?" Anne asks, loudly, and with a cheerful smile, "One so high placed as our good Mr Cromwell affected by the warmth of the weather? But I thought him to be made wholly of ice!"

"With a heart of marble, Majesty!" Margery laughs in return, as they look up at Cromwell, who is entirely unembarrassed by both their scrutiny and their humour.

"If I did not know better, Majesty." He says, looking down at them, "I should think that you had become grievously lost."

"Ah. It is a short cut." She answers, cheerfully, "To whence, I know not; but I am convinced that it is so."

"Then I wish you good morning and I hope that you find your way." He is about to lean in again.

"If you are not busy this afternoon, my Lord Treasurer, perhaps a game of chess?"

He looks back down, "I should like that very much, Majesty."

* * *

Anne sets out the chess pieces, while Lady Rochford works her way through a pile of papers upon which are inscribed sets of chansons with notation. There is no need for her to play - but Anne has learned well the danger of appearing unchaperoned, and thus she has at least one of her ladies present at all times if there is a man in the Apartments. Even a man as high-placed, and of considerably greater age, as Mr Cromwell.

Jane has a rather triumphant air about her, for she knows now her power over her husband. He remains at Court solely because the Queen will not permit Jane to depart - and he has no allies now at the Council table. Thus he sulks, tantrums and behaves like an oaf. Not that either woman cares particularly. As long as he does no damage to anyone, then he can do as he likes. Hardly an overall change to his current manner, really.

She looks up as the door opens to admit Lady Bryan, "Majesty, her Majesty the Queen."

Smiling delightedly, Anne rises to her feet and curtseys to Elizabeth as she is ushered into the room by Mistress Champernowne, "My goodness, Majesty - a new dress! It does become you!"

It is indeed a work of art - a richly embroidered leaf-green kirtle under a darker green overgown of brocaded silk that shows off the girl's lustrous Tudor-red hair - still long tresses that are held from her face by a light headdress of gold cords joined together with lovers' knots. She is too young to coif it beneath a hood just yet.

"Thank you Mama!" As always, she seems utterly alive with joy - as though her morning of lessons has been a morning of play. Thanks be to God - she is such a bright child, "Kat wove the headdress for me, is it not wonderful?"

Anne smiles. It is no surprise to her that Mistress Champernowne has won the affection of her daughter, and performs the function of a trusted older sister. God forbid that she find herself ousted as a mother, "It is indeed, my darling. Mr Cromwell shall be visiting us this afternoon for some games of chess. Would you like to watch us play?"

"Shall you teach me how, Mama?" Elizabeth is, of course, immediately interested in the prospect of learning a complex game.

"If you like." Anne laughs, "Perhaps, between us, we shall trounce him!"

Cromwell seems quite unperturbed by the additional audience as he seats himself at the table, having selected white this time round. There were times when Anne and Grace would sit at his side while he played, and Anne in particular was most keen upon his strategies when he did so. That Elizabeth seems eager to do likewise is no surprise to him, and he is pleased to see her there. It is as though his beloved girls are with him again.

As he moves his Queen's Knight's pawn forth two squares, Anne watches him. The look upon his face at the sight of Elizabeth seated nearby was remarkably benign, and kindly, too. Indeed, if she did not know better, she would think that her daughter views the older man as some sort of vaguely related uncle. Already, she is moving forward a little, to sit alongside him and watch what he does. While it stings her pride a little, it also gives her cause to smile - for she is learning to trust this man just as her mother is.

God help him if he betrays it.

Before long, the two of them are whispering to one another, sharing strategies and thoughts _sotto voce_ , and she doesn't mind at all that they are beating her hands down. She has never seen him like this: relaxed, open, cheerful. Even before their falling out, he had maintained that stiff aura of courtesy - almost a mask to hide behind: to protect himself from the scorn and condescension of those of higher state than his. To see him without it is quite a revelation - transforming him from an aloof politician into something close to a paternal figure to whom she can look for friendship and support. More, even, than her own father.

How strange to think that. Her hand pauses over her King's Bishop, and she looks carefully across the remaining pieces on the board; but her thoughts are not on strategy. Instead, they are upon the growing realisation that there is no one for her now - not husband, not family. A crushing weight that causes her to pull back and stare through misted eyes at the chessboard.

"Majesty, are you unwell?" At once, Cromwell's question is concerned, and she vaguely sees Elizabeth rising to her feet.

"No - I am quite alright. Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to fetch in Mistress Horsman? I think my stays must be too tight."

"Of course, Mama." She is too young to object that, as Queen of England, it is not for her to go on errands.

"Tell me the truth, Majesty." He says, as soon as the girl is gone. While he has not gained Anne's degree of trust in Lady Rochford, who remains at the virginals and attempts to look in any direction but at the two people opposite, he appreciates that she is not going to be dismissed - for his safety as much as anything else.

"Forgive me." Anne says, quietly, "For a moment, I thought of how things are - and I was struck by a most terrible sense of loneliness."

Rather than dismiss her words, he looks at her kindly, "It is hard to bear a burden such as yours - and to be in circumstances such as these. There is no shame in feeling alone."

She smiles at him, and sets her hand upon his, briefly, "Thank you. I thought we could never be friends again, after such bitter arguments. Now, I know that I was wrong."

He shakes his head, his smile now amused, "Ah, Majesty - I do not think that we are free from the possibility of arguments - even bitter ones. You and I are two people, with our own minds and opinions. I promised you that I would always be truthful, and frank. If I am to keep that promise, then be assured there shall be many arguments in the years to come, for I know that you are well educated, and have strong views of your own - which are certain on occasion not likely to coincide with mine."

Her expression changes to earnest sincerity, "Then I give you my word, sir, that I shall not view our disagreements as personal criticism, nor shall I see them as disagreements on principle. You promised me honesty and frankness, thus I promise you equal courtesy. The world is ranged against us, Thomas Cromwell - and if I am to survive, and my daughter to win her inheritance, we must face that world together."

She withdraws her hand, and he rises to his feet, and bows, "Thank you, in return."

His expression is quite paternal, as though he approves of a favoured daughter. There was a time when her father did so - tender feelings long buried deep in a grave that seems to contain all of him other than his ambition and craving for power. Now, however, she looks up at the tall man forever dressed in black, and wonders if she might have lost one father, only to gain a new one.

And, in that moment, she feels safe again.

* * *

Lord Rochford has had too much claret; Jane can see it in his flushed face and bitter expression. In spite of his inability to be discreet over showing his tempers to all and sundry, that failure of talent is all the greater when he is in his cups.

He is not aware that she has seen - and read - the letter that arrived from the Earl of Wiltshire this morning, and she knows that her father-in-law's exhortations to his son on myriad topics are the cause of her husband's poor mood. Being so far from Court, and having no access to the intelligence networks that Cromwell can command, he has no idea what is happening - but assumes that, in the absence of Norfolk and himself, the Regent operates in a vacuum of inertia. Thus his letters are full of invective and conflicting advice that suggests his son act in a certain way, then, in the next paragraph, urges against it. Above all, he seems to demand that George undermine all that the Regent attempts to implement, but to do so in such fashion that he cannot be seen to be responsible. Knowing her husband as she does, Jane appreciates that such subtlety is quite impossible. George is many things, witty, intelligent and charming to name but three qualities - but he is not at all devious: his father is the one with _that_ particular talent. Besides, surely even he has worked out by now that Anne no longer trusts him.

As though he has not had enough already, he slops more claret into his cup and gulps at it with an almost vicious determination. There was a time when she would have dreaded his getting into such a state as this, as drink seems to unleash a far darker side to him than is ever present when he is sober. It seems to her that there have always been two George Boleyns - one who is personable and friendly, and another who is unpleasant and cruel. The former seems able to quell the latter for much of the time, unless in drink - or not particularly interested in doing so. Unlike some, she is one of those to whom that restraint is not granted. Though Anne sees it now, too; and no longer defends him. On the contrary, she has made it abundantly clear that it is Jane who has her protection now, not Rochford. He threw _that_ privilege away when he decided to stand with Norfolk in hopes of deposing her.

She continues to work upon her embroidery, this time a gift for the Queen Elizabeth. Her husband is most certainly in an unenviable position, as the hopes of his faction were to install Richmond, in further hopes of gaining high Court positions as a reward - but then the youth died, and the only other truly viable heir is Mary - who would throw herself onto an open fire before she accepted their fealty.

Now _there_ is an unknown quantity. What is happening with Mary? Certainly she has been given an excellent house, an extraordinarily generous pension for her own use, and she is not even required to pay for her household expenses. Such largesse is unlikely to inspire love for the Regent from that benighted girl - though even Anne knows that Mary never once blamed Elizabeth for her reversal of fortune. But would that stop her from attempting to oust the child that now wears the Crown? The law prevents it, for Mary is still barred from the succession on account of her bastardy, and the invalidity of her mother's marriage to the King. He was, however, still her father - and only a fool would believe that Anne has ever won the love of the people of England. Anne might have done, but only because she made herself believe it and was shielded from any evidence to the contrary. Even when she went on Progress with her husband only last year, the presence of people cheering the King was overwhelming - but who amongst them cheered for her? Mary, on the other hand, would win such cheers - for she is the daughter of Katherine, and even now there are many in England who would consider her blood to be the truer. The only way to prevent Mary from stealing the crown is to steal the hearts of Englishmen from her. While Elizabeth is lauded as 'King Harry's Bairn', that is tempered by the belief that the whore who supplanted England's True Queen governs England in her stead. It shall take a great deal of concerted effort to overcome _that_ particular stain - and Jane is glad that she is not the one tasked with such an enterprise.

Rochford shifts from his chair and crosses to the window to look out. Looking up from her embroidery, Jane wonders what he is thinking. Perhaps he is realising that he does not have the same degree of ambition as his father - and that his wish is to work with his sister, not against her. Freed from the influence of those who would overturn everything in pursuit of their own power, perhaps he might reconsider his loyalties.

"George." Her voice is tentative; she knows that it takes little for her to provoke him these days.

To her relief, he turns slowly to look at her, "Jane."

"Forgive me; but - what troubles you? You seem most perturbed."

He pauses, then crosses back to sit before her, "I am being asked to act against my conscience, I think. And the more that I think it, the more convinced I am that I have chosen wrongly in tying my loyalties to those who oppose the Regent."

"In what way?"

"I have received a letter from my father: one in which he all but orders me to destroy the Regent." Rochford looks strained, "I am being asked to harm my sister, and my niece; worse, that destruction is at the instigation of our father. I cannot understand how that should be."

"She has claimed the crown in place of a Lord Protector, George." Jane reminds him, gently, "In doing so, she dashed the hopes of ambitious men who had expected to rule in her stead."

"What am I to do, Jane?" He asks, his eyes full of appeal. There are times when he recognises that she is his wife, and that she matters to him in some way; it is the memories of those times that sustain her in those other times when he does not.

"What do you _want_ to do, George?" _please let him choose to reconcile with his sister…please…_

"I want Anne to look at me, and smile again, Jane." He admits, painfully, "I want to be her brother - and I want her to be my sister. I want to laugh with her, argue with her…all that we did before all of this began. I allowed myself to become blind to all but the ambition for power - but it is only now that I truly see it. I let my father and uncle lead the way - and followed like a useless, hopeless _sheep_. What kind of man does that make me?"

She does not answer, instead, she grasps his hand in both of hers, "Reconcile with her Majesty the Regent, George - as I did. If we are to keep England together, so that Elizabeth may rule it as Queen when she is of age, then we must be united, must we not? Would not the Council benefit from your presence as a loyal member?"

Finally, he smiles, "I think that has been in my mind for some days, Jane. I could not bring myself to accept that I had chosen wrongly. Pride has always been something of a thorn in my side, I fear. To hear it spoken to me by another voice has served only to make that conviction stronger."

Surely it is not his drunkenness that is making him speak so? Jane looks at him more closely, and frowns a little; no, it is not. Yes, he has imbibed rather more claret than he should have done - but not so much that he is in that uncontrolled state that she fears. Instead, it has - rather perversely - cut through his uncertainty and inhibition, and he has come to a firm conclusion. Ironically, it has also ensured that any attempt at falsehood would be utterly obvious.

"I think her Majesty shall be most pleased to welcome you into her close circle of friends and advisers again, George. In spite of all, I think that she misses you."

"I have missed her." He agrees, looking rather sad.

"Would you like me to speak to her this evening? I am to attend her in the hall this evening; the Ambassadors are presenting their credentials to Queen Elizabeth in recognition of the new reign. I am sure you would like more to attend as her brother than as a mere member of her council, is that not so?"

"Most assuredly." Rochford sits back, and sighs, "Lord - I shall have much work to do if I am to win her round. Anne is not a woman who forgives easily. I have learned _that_ from long experience."

Jane smiles again, "Then we shall begin that work tonight."

* * *

The hall is packed with bodies - people who are essential, people who are not, people who have no apparent purpose in being there at all other than to occupy space. Above, a consort of musicians plays in the gallery under Mark Smeaton's direction from his lute, while below, two lines of dancers are engaged in a slow pavane.

Chapuys watches all around him with narrowed eyes; taking in those of note who are present. The Concubine, of course, sits alongside the empty throne of the King - for her bastard brat is far too young to preside over such gatherings - and has accepted the credentials of all the ambassadors who have approached to present them. He has not yet been called, and waits with ever decreasing patience for someone to fetch him.

The feast that they have been served was indeed magnificent - though the number of dishes seemed reduced from the scandalous levels that once graced the King's table. The banquet served while they waited for that feast to be voided was also notable for its quantities - though the quality was as excellent as ever. It seems that, despite her reputation, the woman is not quite so wedded to the requirement for show as the late King.

He has attempted, on several occasions, to communicate with the young woman whom he considers to be the true Queen of England, but she is close guarded at Hunsdon, though she lives in luxury and with a degree of freedom that surprises him under the circumstances. So far each attempt has failed - and the most recent came horribly close to being discovered. Had _that_ happened, then Chapuys has no doubt that he would have been firmly escorted from Court - and equally firmly invited to depart aboard the next available ship.

His attention moves on to the men of the Council, all of whom are present and gathered near to the throne. That raven Cromwell, of course, is never far from her side - whispering sedition and heresy in her ungodly ear, no doubt - while those men who have received favour stand around in equally close proximity. Sussex is closest, of course; he is the Lord Chancellor in place of the lesser man Audley, who is sitting some distance away. While Southampton and that rodent Rich are talking to Cromwell, though their expressions are too cheerful to be talking of matters of State.

Yes - Audley does look out of sorts; any hope of preferment having been banished with Norfolk and Wiltshire. For a moment, Chapuys's lip curls in disdain - the act that toppled them was so simplistic - so…so… _childish_ , that he wonders how it is that either of them could have allowed themselves to be so easily snared. It can only have been complacency; a mistake that her late Majesty Queen Katherine equally made, in assuming her duplicitous lady in waiting to be just another mistress who would be taken up in a heartbeat, and discarded just as quickly.

Now the former Lord Chancellor sits at a lower table with Wingfield and Bishop Tunstall - the only men left at that table who are not in thrall to that woman. God have mercy, surely she has not bought them all with the same coin as that which won the King? But she is a whore, is she not - so why would she be choosy over the one who tups her if they give her what she wishes for in return?

He is roused from his contemplations by Suffolk, who approaches him in the midst of a lively galliard that fills the hall with noise as people speak more loudly over the music. Presuming that he is to be summoned to face That Woman, he bows formally, "Your Grace."

"Excellency - a word?" Looking about carefully, Suffolk turns and leads Chapuys off to a small alcove some way from the throng.

"How can I be of assistance?" Chapuys looks intrigued - he knows that Suffolk was for the late Queen as others were not.

"Speak softly, your Excellency - what I wish to discuss would be considered treason in some quarters."

The Ambassador's ears prick up at once: there is only one subject that would require such care, and he seats himself nonchalantly upon a bench, as though they are discussing nothing of substance.

"I have been in communication with Queen Mary." Suffolk begins, talking in a very low voice, "I have a man in her retinue, and a woman in her train. Between them, they are able to circumvent the strictures placed upon her Majesty by the usurper Anne."

Chapuys nods, and smiles as though he has been told something of supreme amusement - which, in some ways, he has. Does Suffolk really think he does not know that Edward Seymour and his sister Jane are at Hunsdon? Queen Mary would welcome Jane, as she is both a goodly Catholic, and had come very close to driving a wedge between the King and his whore that might well have become permanent. In the girl's mind, to remove the Concubine would be to regain her father's love - which would be as strong as it has always been, but for its being poisoned by the filthy venom of that paike.

"It would be helpful to know whether his Imperial Majesty would support her in her claim to the throne of England." Suffolk continues, "France is likely to declare for the Regent - assuming that de Castelnau has set aside the insult she threw at him on Lady Day."

"He has already done so." Chapuys advises, "She summoned him not three days ago and spoke honeyed words to him, blaming all upon the ambition of her father, and promising alliances and treaties to favour King Francis's interests. He was won over in less than ten minutes. Thus France is less likely to declare against her than was once the case - believe me, he is a fearful gossip when enough wine has been consumed."

"I have no doubt that his Holiness would issue a Bull in support of her Majesty's claim - but for the Emperor to also support her would be our greatest hope. She has the love of all true Englishmen - a love that the usurper cannot hope to grasp - and thus they would certainly rise to her banner. Once that vile reformer Cromwell begins to reinstate his actions against the Holy Church, it is but a matter of time before those who see their faith under threat shall turn upon him. If they have a worthy figurehead - a _true_ Queen to rally them - then who shall stop them? Her Majesty shall receive her just rights and inheritances, while those who denied her shall be seen by all - their heads atop spikes upon London Bridge."

Chapuys laughs uproariously, "God's blood, your Grace! And to think I have never seen such an act of mummery as that - dressing in green branches and dancing to drums! Why, in some parts of his Imperial Majesty's realm, there are people who celebrate saints days by enclosing cats in pots, suspending the pots from ropes and stoning them until they break and the cats fall to earth. What strange customs we seem to have!"

Suffolk frowns, but does not object - for he can guess why the Ambassador's behaviour has changed. Someone is behind him.

"Your Excellency." Rich is there, his expression bland, but his eyes rather narrow, "Her Majesty the Queen Regent shall see you now."

"Of course." Chapuys rises, then turns to Suffolk, "Thank you for a most _interesting_ discussion. I shall consider that which you have told me - most interesting! We shall speak anon." Still chuckling, he departs to approach the throne.

Sitting in the alcove, Suffolk allows himself a sense of hope. If Chapuys is with them, then perhaps the Emperor shall be, too.


	18. A Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone - things got a bit busy last week and I didn't get the chance to update. Thanks as always for the reviews and kudos. :-)

"Thank you, Gentlemen." Anne rises from the Council table, as her councillors rise and bow, "Today has been a most useful meeting. If you could continue with your investigation into charitable institutions, Mr Rich, I would be pleased to receive your report as soon as it is ready."

"Yes, Majesty." While it is not - technically - his responsibility to undertake such work these days, Rich is one of the most remarkably organised men in her government, and there is no one other than Mr Cromwell himself who is more fitted to the task. Both men are particularly noted for their capacity for sheer hard work - and she knew even when Henry was still alive that the two of them were highly regarded for that, even if not for anything else.

As the assembled councillors depart, however, one remains, and Anne looks up to see her brother standing nearby, and looking unusually pensive.

"Yes, George." She says, briskly, "How can I be of assistance?"

"Er…Anne…sorry, your _Majesty_ …" he fumbles for words, "I…"

She regards him, surprised at such shyness from a man rarely backwards in coming forwards, "I take it that you shall arrive at your intended point at some time today?" He sided with Norfolk against her, so she has no wish to make things easy for him.

He shuffles and looks embarrassed, "I have reached an uncomfortable conclusion." He says, after a while, "In standing alongside my father, I made an incorrect choice for the welfare of the realm."

"Did you come to that conclusion before, or after, your allies were banished?"

Rochford's face reddens further still, which is answer enough.

Anne regards him. A part of her truly wants to accept that he is looking to join her as a loyal ally - but, after all that has occurred, can she do so? All of her councillors are still working to earn her trust - even those who declared their loyalty from the beginning, and have proved themselves over and over again to be dedicated to the realm. Her brother, on the other hand, stood against her - alongside a father who had abandoned her in favour of political power. Does he truly believe that she can ignore that?

No - he does not. He is looking at the floor now, "I think that, in the absence of our father, I am seeing things more clearly. He has become blinded by the desire for ascendancy - and I have become the same. He saw your rise in the King's favour as his quickest route to that very goal; but then, when his Majesty died, he presumed that he would benefit even further as Norfolk assumed the protectorship. We did not anticipate that you would act as you did - but, as I think on it, I know that he would have done all that he could to retain it even after her Majesty had come of age."

"I know that." She agrees, "Do you think that I would do likewise?"

He shakes his head.

"And in that, my brother, you would be wrong." She says, quietly, "Each and every day, I must remind myself that it is my daughter who is Queen, and not I. The lustre of a crown is most seductive, I fear, and even a mother's love must speak loudly in order to quell that siren's call. I have taken steps to lay down in law that Elizabeth shall assume her rightful place as Queen when she comes of age, for fear that I, too, might be unwilling to relinquish the power that comes with a throne."

"Is that why you have given Parliament more power?"

"Partially, I think." She admits, "I know that his late Majesty viewed the men of Parliament as a tiresome hindrance at times - but what use is it to us if we have men who come from the shires, but do not look to them for aid and advice? If I am making decisions that impact upon her Majesty's subjects, then is it not appropriate that those who represent them are consulted? They shall not command me, or her Majesty; instead they shall give me their opinions and advice."

Rochford smiles, "No man would do such a thing."

"Indeed they would not. But I am no man. It is my hope that, in granting this concession, I shall prevent - or at least delay - a more determined assault upon my prerogatives as Regent, or those of Elizabeth as Queen. We cannot ignore them - so is it not better to make use of their abilities?"

"They shall demand more in time. You know that."

She nods, "Yes, I imagine that they shall - men, after all, are never satisfied with the power that they have. Are they?"

He snorts with mild amusement, "That, I fear, is true."

Anne sighs, "Believe me, George - I truly wish that I could believe that you are intent upon granting me your loyalty; but after all that has happened, it is hard."

"I understand." He agrees, "Perhaps if I tell you that my conclusion was made final by the letter that I received from our father yesterday. He instructed me to do all that I could to drive your rule onto the rocks of perdition, but his advice was so confused, so contradictory, that I realised that he has become intent only upon removing you - and cares nothing for what might follow if he does."

"I take it that he is keen upon the Protectorship now that Norfolk has fallen." It is not a question.

"It would seem so."

"And he would be no more keen to relinquish it than Uncle Thomas would have been."

Rochford shakes his head, "Her Majesty is my niece; you are my sister. That our father has so utterly turned against you in favour of his own benefit is shocking - and I hope it is but an aberration brought upon him by anger. If that is so, then perhaps we might regain his loyalty when he has returned from his travels to the ports of England."

Such hopes. Her expression sad, Anne allows herself to accept his embrace, "He loved us both, once; and then we became naught but an adjunct to his ambition. I do not think that we shall regain it, George. We have defied him, and that, he does not forgive."

"Then give me the opportunity to serve her Majesty with loyalty, Sister. I do not ask for preferment, or for high office. I ask only that you allow me to stand beside you as the uncle of the Queen, and serve her diligently. There are still people who would do all that they could to unseat you, and her Majesty. I no longer wish to be one of them."

She says nothing, but nods. And hopes that doing so shall not be a disastrous mistake.

* * *

The hot weather has become tiresome, having lingered for nearly a week and a half. Sitting in a small court where fountains play, Mary fans herself and sits back under the shade of a large sycamore tree. Nearby, Pax is running about, chasing after a multitude of butterflies that adorn the roses and barking excitedly as they flit hither and thither. She wonders where he gets the energy in such enervating conditions.

Jane Seymour is embroidering alongside her, a carefully and expertly stitched panel depicting the martyrdom of St Cecilia that is almost complete. When those of the household who have been appointed by the Concubine are not present, they pray the rosary together, though no one has prevented them from celebrating mass. She has no doubt, however, that her activities are reported upon.

"My brother has received another communication, Majesty." There is no one in earshot, so Jane uses the title that Mary expects to hear. The laws of England, after all, do not supersede those of Ecclesiastical law - it is the words of men who have denied her her inheritance, not the reality and truth of her birth.

Mary nods, but gives no other indication of interest. There are people at the other side of the garden who - while they cannot hear - can still see, "When shall it be brought to me?"

"I hope to receive it later today. Should I do so, I shall pass it to you in your prayer book, for you did, after all, lend it to me, did you not?"

Mary does not raise her head, but Jane can see her smile.

It is not disloyalty to her father to lay plans to claim that which is hers by right. She is the only child of Henry's legitimate marriage to the Queen of England, and no pretence by any man can overturn that which was bound by God. Her mother fought it to the end, even though she lost, and so she shall do likewise. England should be given the Queen that is rightfully hers - and God would be upon her side. The Holy Father would certainly speak out in her favour, and he is God's representative upon Earth.

She has no argument with the babe Elizabeth - after all, she cannot help her parentage - and she would never punish a child for the actions of her mother; but as soon as she is crowned, Mary shall ensure that _that woman_ shall pay for her treason upon a scaffold, while those who supported her shall suffer an equal fate. One cleansing outpouring of blood to save the realm - and bring England home to her true faith once more.

In spite of the necessity to act with such force, Mary shudders at the thought of it. She is not violent by nature - even though her temper can be a true tempest if fully unleashed - and would prefer to gain the loyalty of those who have turned against her. But how could they ever be trusted if they did not come to her at the outset? No - they must be removed, and all opportunities to plunge England into civil war removed with them. Best to start again with loyal servants who shall serve her absolutely.

It is hard to spend the rest of the day in calm contemplation, as she is all a-fever with curiosity over the letter that has come from Court. The Concubine might well have won over the Council, but she has the loyalty of one member, and thus is not blind to their activities. So far, they have bought the loyalty of Parliament with promises of power that she is convinced shall not be kept. Though that shall make things far easier for her, as her intention is to retain the counsel of loyal men that can be trusted both as loyal advisers and true Catholics. She sees no reason to give up the prerogatives of a Crown to commoners. Her father did not, and neither did her mother when he left the realm in her care. It shows only that the Regent cannot rule. If she could, she would not need to look to Parliament.

Rumours have reached her that all of the European ambassadors have pledged their loyalty to the Queen Elizabeth, and she longs to know whether that is true or not. If it is so, then it shall make her plans far harder to bring about. Surely the Emperor has not abandoned her? While she is confident of support from the Holy Father, she needs more than just his endorsement to take back her realm from a usurper - and it seems impossible to her that her own cousin would ignore her claim.

Supper is eaten, and cleared. Those of her household whom she did not appoint are busy at their duties, leaving her with Jane and Susan Clarencieux, and she looks eagerly to Jane for the promised letter. Jane's expression clearly shows that she has one, and she hands it over with a smile.

The seal is not broken, though she has no doubt that Edward has used a hot knife to lift it before replacing it once his own curiosity was satisfied. It gives her pleasure to break the wax disc, and she opens the letter with slightly trembling hands.

_Majesty,_

_I am pleased to report that the Imperial Ambassador has written to his Imperial Majesty upon your behalf to request his support for your intention to claim your royal crown. We await his response - which Chapuys expects within three weeks - but it is likely that his support shall be forthcoming._

_The negotiations with Parliament are complete, and - alas - the prerogatives that they have been granted are now in place. They shall be called into session three times each year, for four weeks to each session. All laws shall pass through their hands before they are granted assent, and taxation shall be considered and reviewed by them. We are relieved, however, that they have not been granted - or requested - the right to appoint those ministers who shall, in time, be yours._

_Having purchased the goodwill of Parliament, the Regent is now looking to purchase the goodwill of the people, through false acts of charity. It is, I fear, likely that they intend to continue to destroy the great Religious Houses of England, and the holy relics they protect. Thus they do what they can to bribe your subjects into acceptance of such a grotesque act against God's holy Church._

_It grieves me to be obliged to stand against an anointed Queen - but it is a greater burden to do so in the face of one born of an invalid marriage, while the true Queen remains held from her people. It speaks against me as a loyal subject and a true Christian, and I am ever more certain that to bring you to your true inheritance is God's will. Thus, I hope that he shall forgive all that I must do in order to aid you._

_As soon as I have received word from Chapuys, I shall advise you of the Emperor's decision. Trust in God, and pray for our success._

_Your friend,_

_Suffolk_

So, she must wait a little longer, it seems. There is no worth in making her claim while she is unsupported; although she is certain that she can look to the people for their love, those who stand above them shall not accept her if they think that it shall lead to war with their neighbours. Much as she would be pleased to remove those who have stolen her crown, she knows enough to know that such a move at such a time shall serve nothing, and no one.

But to live like this - a pampered imprisonment. The chains that she wears are made of gold, and silk - and her people toil under false rule while she resides in comfort and wealth.

"Majesty," Jane whispers, "Father Francis has arrived for our evening mass."

"Then let us pray for the success of our hopes." Mary smiles, "For that is what shall serve England best."

* * *

His expression is disgruntled, even if his ability is ideal for the task in hand. It has been a week - and he has only just surveyed the first of many ports around the Kingdom. Wiltshire could have completed the count far more quickly than he has, but for his frequent angry letters to George, exhorting him to continue the work that he has been obliged to set aside thanks to his own complacency.

God's wounds - it had never occurred to him for a moment that his infuriating daughter would think to turn that blasted letter against him as she did. Was it her idea? Or perhaps that blasted creature Cromwell. Between them, they have used the simplest of ruses to remove from him all that he was hoping to gain. By concealing that bloody letter in George's papers, the two of them stymied an entire faction - and now he is here, at Deptford, counting vessels for a prototypical naval fleet.

It is that - the flimsiness of the ploy - that rankles the most. Wiltshire is used to being the consummate manipulator, and to have been trapped in his own act is deeply infuriating. That George has proved so useless in writing back to him is all the more trying - without answers to his letters, how the hell can he continue to plan?

All of the men who have accompanied him on this blasted trip are in Cromwell's pocket - and he cannot even complain about that, for the final report shall be passed to him as the Lord High Treasurer. He must, after all, consider the costs of the naval fleet in order to work out how much they shall need to pay if they are to see off any overseas threat. That they can - if so minded - report his every move back to that damned crow ensures that he takes the greatest of care with the dispatch of his letters. Presumably George has not the wit to find some means to get responses back to him.

The man granted as his personal manservant enters with a tray upon which is set a dish. The victuals in this benighted place are of such poor quality that he would refuse to eat them were it possible for him to demand better. As he cannot, however, he chokes down the mean stews of salt beef and beer, with rough, chewy bread that makes his jaws ache if he chews it for too long.

And - to truly make his day complete - he has a toothache.

The thought of continuing such a dull task is so abhorrent, that he is even considering another idea that was equally, if not more, abhorrent a mere two weeks ago. It is clear to him that Anne has rejected his authority as her father, and refuses to accept her filial duties to him - which he expects as his due. If that is so, then he, equally has no paternal affection to grant her in return. Thus he shall turn to others who might be persuaded to accept his advice as a man who has served a King.

It shall, of course, require a great deal of grovelling, and the proclamation of a change of faith - but if he cannot bend Anne to his will, perhaps a younger woman shall prove more pliable. His expression cold, he reaches for a sheet of rough paper, and loads his quill. If this can grant him that which he desires, then it shall most assuredly be worth the humiliation at the outset.

_To her Majesty, Queen Mary of England, France and Ireland, greeting_ …

* * *

The stag leaps from its cover and flees across the parkland, accompanied by loud halloos and the music of the hounds. In their wake, the crowd of courtiers spur their horses to the gallop and give chase.

How long has it been since she last hunted? Not in months - he had ceased to require her presence as the year progressed, and then she had fallen pregnant, and avoided riding at all in order to protect her babe. Such protection as it gave. Or not.

Now, however, she is free to return to the excitements of _la chasse_ , and she is close to the head of the pack of riders, for her skill upon horseback is well known. She is content to endure the discomfort of the thick woollen stockings she must wear as she rides astride, and the constriction of her riding habit too; it is worth it for the exhilaration of the wind in her face, and the sense of absolute freedom that comes with being seated upon a horse at the gallop. She hopes, in time, that Elizabeth shall also know this feeling - but she is still obliged to be seated upon Orithyia and guided by a groom with a leading rein. The young groom assigned to school her reports that she is becoming a better horsewoman with each passing day, and he has hopes that she shall soon be free to guide the horse herself.

Their quarry flees with great speed, and the chasing hunt is obliged to pass through copses and over several walls in order to run it down. Some of the riders pull up at the sight of the second wall, as it is rather higher than the previous, and they are afraid that they shall not make the jump. Perhaps they are right to be cautious, but Anne's exhilaration overcomes her discretion - a leap of such height shall feel like flying, and she is unafraid to try it.

The horse bunches, and then launches into the air, and she leans forward to compensate for the rise, then leans back as they clear the wall and her mount lands, pecks, then recovers. Others have also crossed in safety, thank God - though some have been obliged to stop as their horses refused the jump. Anne leans forth again to encourage the horse to greater speed, and laughs at the sheer exhilaration of the ride. There was a time when she and Henry had raced their horses over this very ground, chasing one another almost in competition - before pulling up in the midst of the parkland to enjoy a meal of fine delicacies and sweet wines under an awning, where he would recite poetry to her, and she would think herself the most fortunate woman in the world - for she had won the heart of the greatest prince in Christendom…

Ahead, the hounds have surrounded the stag, and have brought it to bay in the midst of a copse. Henry would have fired the quarrel that dispatched it - he demanded that privilege - but now it is Sussex who performs that function, taking up a crossbow, and ending the animal's life in a single shot to the heart while the hounds are called off. Stepping back, he allows the huntsmen to come forth and transport the beast back to the palace, where it shall be butchered and hung, ready for the court's consumption in a few weeks.

For those who have reached this point, however, there shall be a repast under bright awnings awaiting them, just as there once was for Anne and Henry. The chosen spot is less than a half mile away, thanks to the care taken to direct the stag to this place, and the crowd of Courtiers is already gathering, while stewards prepare to serve a selection of dishes. All but two of those present were part of the hunt, but she knows that Messrs Cromwell and Rich are far too busy to engage in such pastimes. They are there at her request, and have come down separately from the hunters. The days when she could indulge her passion for hunting without thought of the cares of running the Kingdom are now gone.

"Has the morning gone well, Majesty?" Cromwell asks, as he waits for Anne to seat herself before doing likewise.

"We have a fine stag, Mr Cromwell." She answers brightly, "And how has the morning passed for you?"

"Busily, Majesty." He smiles, as she reaches for a glass of cold ale, “While there is a man who reports to me in his retinue, I have set another man of my own to watch over the activities of the Imperial Ambassador, as I am rather concerned at his behaviour. I think he may have set plans in motion that do not bode well for the realm."

"In what way?"

"In seeking the support of his Imperial Majesty to back the Lady Mary in a claim to the throne."

Anne goes very still, "And you believe Charles would do so?"

"It is difficult to say, Majesty." He admits, "He has given no indication that he would fail to recognise her Majesty Queen Elizabeth as the rightful Queen of England - but, there is no escaping the truth that the Lady Mary is his cousin, and that he might well see benefit in doing so."

"He had better not." Anne snaps, viciously, "And what of the Lady herself?"

He sighs, "I have not been able to ascertain that to the degree that I should like to. But…" he pauses, then remembers his promise to be frank, "I have it on good authority that those who are her confidantes refer to her as 'your Majesty' when they think none are present to hear them.”

Anne turns to face him, her expression now deadly, "If that is so, then it shall be stopped. Immediately. She is _not_ a Queen - and never shall be. If it is confirmed that she is demanding that her sycophants address her so, then they shall be removed from her household forthwith."

Cromwell shakes his head, "I would counsel against such precipitate action, Majesty. The Lady Mary remains compliant at this time, though I am having the Seymours watched, as I am assured in my view that they are acting as a conduit between the Court and Hunsdon. I have no doubt at all that she intends to declare her claim at some time - though if she delays for much longer, the opportunity shall be lost, for she shall be all but forgotten. If we provoke her, however, she may decide to act."

He watches, as Anne turns his words over in her mind. In some matters, she most assuredly thinks with her head - but in others, she thinks with her heart, and thus is prone to error. He has not yet definitively identified the traitor at Court - though he has his suspicions - and to provoke Mary to declare her claim before he is ready to counter it would be a dangerous mistake. Rather than embarrass him in public, she turns back to him, "We shall discuss the matter this evening, Mr Cromwell."

_At which time you shall argue with me_. He thinks, but does not say so.

Her determination to ignore the matter is manifest in her request to Rich to apprise her of progress upon her intended charitable works and institutions, and his expression as he does so equally displays his nervous worry that she shall overrule his colleague. They are neither of them unaware of the love that Mary still commands in the shires - a love that is gradually being eroded as she resides in obscurity at Hunsdon. Should she emerge and demand that she is the true Queen, what chance might there be that Elizabeth's subjects rally to her banner? It is not a risk that he, or Cromwell, is keen to put to the test.

His report complete, he sets his papers to one side, as Anne indicates that they are welcome to dine with the assembled courtiers, calmly ignoring the expressions of snobbish annoyance at the two interlopers. Neither man has time to join in with court entertainments of this kind; they are far too busy keeping her daughter's Kingdom from collapsing into a mire of civil war for that.

The meal is a simple affair, in keeping with Anne's intention to reduce the degree of sheer profligacy that marked her husband's reign. And hers - there is no hiding from that. Thus the assembled Courtiers dine upon baked game contained in great coffins of flour paste, manchet bread, sallets of herbs and flowers, ale and claret, and candied fruits with sweet wine. She chooses not to notice the expressions of dismay at the lack of well roasted mutton and venison direct from a spit.

Cromwell and Rich depart before the meal is ended, as they have work that they must do; but the discovery that Mary is already pretending to be Queen, and expecting her confidantes to call her such infuriates her. Damnation - that, above all else, she intends to stop. At once.

* * *

Anne's mood has improved somewhat by the time she has returned to the Palace across the wide park of St James. It is quite impossible to remain ill tempered when one is chasing along on horseback, even if there is no quarry in one's sights.

Elizabeth is in the Privy Garden with Lady Bryan and Miss Champernowne, engaged in some complicated, intricately constructed story in which Lady Mille-Fleurs is the centre of attention. Watching her from the Privy Chamber, Anne's worries return tenfold - Elizabeth is so young, so innocent - and already she faces destruction at the hand of her own sister. No matter how loving that girl might have been towards her sister when they resided at Hatfield, Anne is quite convinced that such kindness shall not be forthcoming should she make a claim to her sister's crown.

There's nothing that she can do, either. She must wait until people have forgotten that wretched, misbegotten brat - there is no alternative, after all. She cannot remove the girl to the Tower, nor can she order the girl's death - much as she would like to. That would create a martyr, and make things worse, so instead she must buy Mary's compliance with unwarranted generosity. If the life of her daughter is at stake, then she shall show no mercy to those that threaten it: Man, woman or child. In the absence of the lion, there is, after all, still the lioness.

Lady Rochford sets out some wafers and sweet wine for her, "Is there anything else you require, Majesty?"

Anne turns, "No - thank you, Jane." She pauses, "I shall sup in our apartments tonight - please advise the kitchens. It is also my intention to invite the Lord High Treasurer to join us, so I should be grateful if you could also be present." Madge is excellent company for discussions involving gossip, dresses, literature and poetry - but she finds matters of high politics rather less enjoyable.

Elizabeth has finished her game in the garden, and comes in to see her mother sitting near the window, "I have enjoyed my games today, Mama - and Kat is most pleased with my latin!"

Anne smiles, "I am pleased to hear it, my dearest. Now, go and wash your hands, and you may have a wafer."

Laughing, the little girl retreats into her chambers. Immediately, Anne's expression darkens again. God help any who would steal that child's inheritance; where once she would have jested that she could simply order the deaths of Katherine and her blasted girl, now she has the true power to do it. And yet, at the same time, she does not. The only way to get rid of Mary would be to marry her off to some compliant Courtier - which she would refuse, for she does not accept that she is no more a princess than she is not a legitimate child. Perhaps it would be better to find some foreign prince and dispatch the girl into exile. Yes - that is most likely to serve Elizabeth's interests…

"Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without." Jane's voice interrupts her thoughts.

His expression is grim, and she looks at him with concern, "What is the matter?"

"I have received word that, while no specific offer of aid has been made, the Emperor looks favourably upon a rival claim from the Lady Mary." He says, quietly, “The man I set to watch him was able to intercept a letter to Ambassador Chapuys. He noted the contents before ensuring it was sent safely upon its way to its intended recipient."

Anne stares at him, her expression appalled.

"I have, as I advised this morning, been unable to definitively prove the identity of the Councillor who is serving her interests - but, what circumstantial evidence we have still points to my Lord of Suffolk and thus I remain convinced that it is he. He has retained his adherence to the old ways, and was known to support the Dowager Princess of Wales during the annulment hearings, even though he did not speak of it. He is also no friend to your Majesty." He adds - not that she needs to be told it; she knows it to be true.

"Then I shall remove him from my council." She says, at once, "I shall not have men present who are not loyal to her Majesty Queen Elizabeth."

"I would counsel against that." Cromwell answers, "Our only advantage at this moment is our foreknowledge of the information. I consider it better to keep him at Court, and at the council table, where we can see him, and keep watch upon his activities."

Anne glares at him, "He is helping _her_." She snaps back, viciously, "That makes him naught but a traitor."

Cromwell does not flinch from her anger, but instead watches her gravely, "Traitor or no, he remains here under our scrutiny. His retinue is large, but long-standing, and I have not been able to penetrate its walls of silence. Thus he is our only source of information pertaining to his activities. He cannot be watched if he is not at Court."

The Regent's expression is now conflicted. He can see how deeply she wishes to strike out at those who would threaten her child - the very epitome of a protective mother; but to do so without preparation is madness, and thus she is required to exert patience, whether she wishes to or not. For as long as she bathes in the warmth of her mother's legacy, the Lady Mary is as untouchable as an angel upon a mile-high plinth.

She sighs, "Do you think it is likely that she shall attempt to raise her banner once she is informed of her Cousin's support?"

"Not immediately." Cromwell muses, "Though she cannot continue to remain silent for too much longer. Parliament has already accepted our terms, and the prospect of better representation has won you respect from those who shall attend for their shires. Once we commence work upon the charitable causes that you intend to establish, the love of the people shall begin to shift, I think. No - if she is to steal England, then she must act quickly, but not without preparation. She does not yet know which lords shall rally to her banner - for if they do not, then her attempt at insurrection shall falter before it has begun."

"I will not have it, Mr Cromwell!" Anne hisses, angrily, "I will not! If she dares to raise a banner against my daughter, then she shall find herself in the Tower, and upon the scaffold, for her presumption!"

Cromwell looks a little helpless. In all matters but this, she can be reasoned with - and indeed her reasoning is generally close to his own - but not when her daughter's safety is under threat. Then, she shall strike with haste, spite, and without thought of the consequences beyond that first moment of release. He can see it.

"I intend to remove all of her servants, and replace them with a household that I have chosen myself." She says, firmly, "No more Seymours sneaking around her, no more Susan bloody Clarencieux whispering sedition in her ear. If I must continue to pay for her household, then _I_ shall employ them. She shall not be permitted communication with any, nor shall she be permitted to receive visitors. I want her forgotten! Then she can be married off without ceremony - preferably to some petty princeling in the low countries, where such nobodies are ten-a-penny. And thus she shall be gone from here and no longer a threat to my child!"

"And, in doing so, you shall make her a martyr - even though she be one who has not given up her life." Cromwell finishes, with that infuriating calmness, "If she is to leave England, then she shall be free to foment rebellion from abroad, to plot with the Emperor - and to lead an invasion of mercenaries should he be willing to finance such an enterprise. She is the daughter of the King's first wife - and the invalidity of that marriage is not universally accepted, nor is her bastardy. You know, as I do, that the late Dowager Princess defied God's law in marrying her late husband's brother - but she claimed to be intact, and thus dispensations were granted. To some, who think that any of God's laws can be ignored should the Vicar of Rome be importuned sufficiently, the dispensation created a valid marriage. That it did not makes little difference to them."

"And what do you suggest, then?" she snaps, angry now.

"Let her think herself safe. Allow her to believe that her plottings are undiscovered. My spy continues to keep me informed - and the more that we know, the easier it shall be to counter her."

There is a knock at the door, and Matthew enters "My apologies, Majesty. The Lord Privy Seal is without - with a message for the Lord Treasurer."

"Show him in, Matthew." She sighs, now what?

The letter that Rich brings with him is clearly unread - for his inquisitiveness is still tempered greatly by his cowardice, but his expression is concerned, "This came by fast horse, Mr Cromwell. I decided it best to bring it to you at once."

"Thank you, Mr Rich." Cromwell takes it, while Anne indicates that he draw up a chair. It seems rude to dismiss him; besides, he might have a different perspective upon their conundrum.

They wait, as Cromwell breaks the seal, and reads the letter, and then his face falls.

"What is it?" Anne asks, at once.

"It is a note from Hunsdon." He answers, his expression dismayed, "It seems that the Lady Mary has already received an expression of support from an English Noble."

Anne and Rich stare at him, shocked, "Who, sir?" She demands, angry now. Who on earth would act against her so?

"Forgive me, Majesty - but it is the Earl of Wiltshire."


	19. An Introduction to England

PART THREE

**RIVAL**

* * *

Chapter 19

_An Introduction to England_

* * *

The rose garden is exquisite, the heady fragrance of a thousand blooms scenting the air as the small group of ladies make their way between the beds towards a small summerhouse in the shade of the garden wall. Behind them, several men of the Council follow, apparently for reasons solely of a social nature, but a diligent observer could not fail to notice that at least one of them has a portfolio under his arm.

Anne has no wish to leave Whitehall, not yet at least. Not while there is the faintest risk that Katherine's misbegotten brat might attempt to call men to arms in support of her invalid claim to the throne. The discovery that her own father has turned upon her and is now attempting to seek favour with the girl remains a true shock. That he no longer loved her, she already knew. That he would do anything to regain the power and privilege that he had lost - again, she knew that, too. But it had never occurred to her for a moment that he would attempt to grasp his lost ascendancy by tying his loyalties to his granddaughter's rival.

In the week that has passed since Mr Cromwell advised her of her father's duplicity, it has not been possible to ascertain whether the wretched creature has accepted or rebuffed his overtures. The matter has not been raised in Council, as she knows that any discussion would make its way back to Mary via Suffolk. God's blood, she would send that man to the Tower if she could do so - but again, her closest advisers have counselled against it, largely owing to the lack of solid evidence. Any precipitate action upon her part is likely to provoke Mary to act equally precipitately, and it is far too early in the reign to know with any certainty whether the people would rise to that alternative banner, or ignore it in favour of Elizabeth.

It is hard not to brood, in spite of her cheerful countenance as she walks arm-in-arm with Margery, laughing a hollow laugh as her dogs play amongst some fallen rose petals. The problem of Mary has been there all along, and it is a matter that they must act upon; she knows that well. But when to do it? If they act too soon, then Elizabeth's subjects might look upon the bastard girl as a martyr - but if they act too late, she might rise against them and demand the Crown for herself.

At least the first Parliament of Elizabeth's reign is to be summoned shortly - a proper gathering of men of England's shires, sent by their Aldermen and Nobility to offer the counsel of those who are not permanently contained within the sheltered confines of London's walls. They shall, of course, be good Christian men who have abjured the tyranny of Rome - and they shall be well aware of the hypocrisy of the Religious houses that sit upon great hoards of wealth, and tell those who live around them in poverty that their misery is God's will and should thus be accepted and borne with good grace.

For the first time since she left her apartments, her amused smile is genuine - the requirement to continue the reform of the Church in England is the one remaining source of friction between her principal advisers. Mr Cromwell, of course, is all but champing at the bit to set his commissioners to work, but Mr Rich is counselling caution. Watching the pair of them stiffly sparring over the issue is quite amusing, as the two are learning to trust one another, but still remain uncertain of that degree of trust. Besides, she has not failed to notice that their former enmity is also crumbling, and they are equally nervous of disrupting that emerging friendship through a major quarrel.

While she is hurt by her father's betrayal, she is, on the other hand grateful for George's return to her side. At first, she was concerned that his act was solely for his own interests - but he has found it in himself to accept the presence of both the Lord Treasurer and the Lord Privy Seal, and seems also to have rekindled his good relations with at least Mr Cromwell, so she is pleased to have him present in her group this morning. Apart from anything else, he can act as an additional chaperone to keep false rumours at bay.

Seating herself in the pavilion, she dispatches her ladies to play with the dogs on one of the lawns, "Has any further news come from Hunsdon?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Nothing of use, Majesty. Wiltshire's letter was dispatched back into her supposedly secretive network of adherents, but it may be that she has not yet received it. I do not doubt that it shall be obvious to all in the household when she does." He adds, with a mild smile of amusement. There is no doubt that Mary's reaction to such a missive shall be incredulous and quite loud. Discreet she may be - but not when she is in a high temper.

"And what of our mission to discover the general mood of the populace?" she turns to Rich.

"The commissioners' reports are starting to arrive, Majesty." He advises, "I also took the liberty of inserting a requirement in the formal recall of Parliament for the representatives to bring with them a report of their own. It shall be interesting to compare them. The more information we have, the easier it shall be to discern our priorities."

Anne nods, and looks at him a little archly, "Took a liberty, Mr Rich?"

At once, his eyes widen, and he looks almost frightened. Henry would never have responded well to a claim that a councillor acted without first seeking his consent - she can see that from his behaviour. Even Mr Cromwell would have done so only very carefully, and then within the most strictly proscribed limits. Add to that the truth that it does not take much to unnerve him, and perhaps it is no surprise that his complexion has gone a little grey. Not wishing him to faint in front of her, she breaks into a smile, "Forgive me, Mr Rich - I was merely speaking in jest. Your action was sensible, and I approve of it."

He looks relieved, and a little embarrassed, so she continues, "When do you expect the reports to be received?"

"In perhaps a week, two at most, Majesty. We have already developed some initial conclusions based upon the reports that came in from London - and we intend to have a draft Poor Law ready for Parliament's consideration as soon as they are in session. The reports that the Commons bring with them shall assist in their deliberations of that draft."

"And they are free to offer amendments as they see fit?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Anne sits back, relieved. If she is to win the hearts of the people, Her preference is to do so through showing that she cares for them, and wishes to ease their troubles as best she can. The Bishops might proclaim that poverty is a truly holy state - but they do so from fine palaces upon a comfortable cushion of wealth. Speaking of which…

"Mr Cromwell, how go matters in relation to the reassignment of my former retinue?" If one is to demand others tighten their belts, one must set an example, after all. She recalls her demands that the monies from the Religious houses go to charitable causes, when they were being all but swallowed up by the cost of both Henry's household and her own. No wonder Mr Cromwell was so irked.

"New positions have been found for all of your lesser retinue, Majesty. Some have been settled with other Courtiers, while others are now employed in the Homes of the nobility." Cromwell advises. The opportunity to employ a member of a Queen's household - individuals with excellent manners and training - seems to have been eagerly grasped, thank God, "The consequential reduction in your Household expenditure stands at approximately a third less than previously."

She nods, approvingly. Henry was keen to promote his Princely state through the display of enormous wealth and grandeur - which is expected, after all - but she is not England's Prince: that is Elizabeth, and thus any attempt upon her own part to do so is likely to be viewed with great disfavour.

"Good. If there are further economies that can be implemented, I think it wise. I was a fool to believe that I was loved as England's Queen, and I think I did so only because I wished to pretend it was so. It is not pleasant to know that one is hated, after all."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "Though I would not advise dressing in sackcloth and ashes."

"God forbid." She laughs, "Even were it required of me, I should struggle with such a wardrobe!"

Rochford leans forward, "Might I suggest another idea?"

Anne turns to him, "Say on, George."

"If there are concerns that the Lady Mary might attempt to raise England against you, and against the Queen Elizabeth, might it be worthwhile to undertake a limited progress? While the Lady Mary is closeted at Hunsdon, it might well enable Elizabeth's subjects to forget Mary more easily and quickly if their new Queen travels amongst them?"

She can see Cromwell and Rich exchanging a glance, each of them clearly thinking the matter over - and their expressions seems almost to change on an instant, as though they are conversing through such means alone. While the Treasurer has always been able to maintain a singularly inscrutable façade for as long as she has known him, she has learned that Rich lacks that capability, and thus she can almost see what he is thinking.

"Is she not too young?" he asks, worriedly, "To travel so is tiring - and she cannot yet ride well enough. Moreover, as she cannot ride far, she would be obliged to travel in an open litter - and to be on public display throughout."

She is relieved that his concerns centre entirely around the welfare of the Queen, and she smiles again, "I am grateful for your concern, Mr Rich; I appreciate that you, too, have daughters who are young, and thus think as a father would. But in some ways, my Lord of Rochford is right - we must allow her subjects to see her, so we must balance her needs with those of expediency, must we not?"

"That is true." Cromwell agrees, "As long as we do not lose sight of her Majesty's tender years, then a progress seems worthwhile. The worst of the hot weather is yet to strike - and to depart from London while the risk of plague is at its highest would be sensible for her Majesty's health. That said, I would not advise a large-scale progress - again, a balance must be struck between recognition of her Majesty's status, and the avoidance of self-aggrandisement."

"We should lodge with families who have young daughters - then she shall have the chance to play." Rochford adds, "It would be a cruelty to demand decorum of her at all times."

They are warming to the idea now, and Anne raises her hands to stop them, "Thank you, Gentlemen - I agree that it is a worthwhile idea. Thus I charge you with the preparation of a suggested route, and activities. Once that has been considered, I shall advise you of my decision."

The three men rise, bow, and depart. She can see them already talking amongst themselves as they go - and is grateful again that circumstances have brought them together. If she can get her daughter out into the shires, then perhaps the memory of that blasted rival shall be dulled, and the threat she presents be quelled.

* * *

"I have supervised the closeting of your linens, my Lady." Jane Seymour advises, as Mary looks up from her volume of speeches by Cicero, "They were most well laundered."

At once, Mary's eyes narrow: while Jane always supervises the handling of her linens, her statement upon the quality of the work is the signal between them that a missive of some sort is in her possession. Susan is sitting nearby, apparently absorbed in some blackwork, while several of the Concubine's planted servants also sit with them, ostensibly embroidering, but also watching them with that annoying scrutiny that shall ensure any palming of notes is seen. Their presence also deters her women from referring to her by her proper title.

"Thank you, Jane. Forgive me, I appear to have left my copy of the poems of Lucius Afranius in my bedchamber, would you be so kind as to fetch it?"

She does not have such a volume - the comic poetry of Afranius being far too low-brow for a woman of her station - but it is the signal between them for Jane to visit her personal quarters and secrete her delivery in a volume of works by Horace that remains permanently in her bedchamber. There is also a book containing poems by Ovid that she leaves there on an equally permanent basis so that Jane does not return empty handed when such situations arise.

God above - when she is Queen, she shall be glad to set aside such deceptive behaviour - it is tiresome, and slows down the movement of information into and out of her house. Her only consolation is that it prevents the spies of that vile corvid Cromwell from knowing her business. If it came to the attention of the Concubine that she was in communication with others, or that her ladies refer to her as the true Queen of England, she is quite certain that a poison of some sort would have found its way into her food by now. But then, she avoids that by demanding that one of that woman's own spies taste all the dishes first.

She returns to the speeches, but cannot concentrate upon them. From whom has the letter been dispatched? Suffolk? Another sympathetic nobleman, perhaps? She knows so little of what is occurring outside her gilded prison that it is impossible to make plans of any worth. And all the time, that thrice-damned woman parades her daughter to the people, and demands that they call the child a Queen. She may have no anger in her heart for that unfortunate babe - but that is more than matched by her virulent hatred for the woman who shattered her world into fragments. Every night, she dreams to herself of the punishments that she shall mete out upon those who have robbed her of her rightful inheritance. That woman shall burn, of course - for she is a traitor as much as a heretic - while those who stand with her shall face the hangman, unless they be of noble birth, of course, in which case she shall allow them the dignity of a headsman instead. Then, perhaps, the humiliation of her poor mother shall be truly paid for.

But then her conscience pricks her. Did the Lord not tell a true Christian to turn the other cheek? How could she truly begin her reign as an enlightened Prince of England by wading in blood? That the Concubine must die is inevitable, and the people shall cheer at her deserved fate, but other than that black-robed monster Cromwell, perhaps she might find it in her heart to forgive - and keep her late father's most skilled men at her table. Then she can bring England back to the true Faith, and restore those religious houses that were destroyed; and all shall be well again.

Most importantly of all - she can finally find a husband, and do her duty as a Queen should.

As the afternoon draws to a close, she rises from her books and withdraws to her personal chambers, leaving those blasted spies behind. With only Susan and Jane for company, and just two dressers who have been with her for years, she is free to fetch out that letter.

_To her Majesty, Queen Mary of England, France and Ireland, greeting._

_I must ask, and plead, for your Majesty's forgiveness and indulgence for my wrongheadedness and foolish regard for matters other than your just and lawful rights. In my loyalty to your late, noble father, I allowed myself to become blinded by glory, wealth and riches - and, as such, was turned from that which was right and true: namely the validity of your mother's marriage, and your true birth. For that, I lay myself at your feet in supplication._

_Equally, I took it upon myself to set a woman of light morals, that I myself had prepared for the task, to pander to the King's wishes for a son, and to worm herself into his affections through unGodly and immoral means. Eager to profit, I was tempted by the blandishments of mammon, and thus made a true shipwreck of my conscience upon the shoals of perdition._

_In doing so, I have come to learn that I threw the true and right rule of England into confusion, and set at her head an illegitimate babe of an invalid union between man and woman. Thus I hope with all of my poor, damaged soul to right that grievous wrong - and offer, with all of my hopes and loyalty, my service to you as England's right, and true Prince._

_In writing this letter, I know that I deserve no forgiveness, nor do I deserve acceptance of this pledge to you. But I ask it in hopes that your gentle soul, so warmly close to the gentle heart of Christ, shall see it in yourself to grant both._

_Thomas Boleyn, Kt. & E. of Wiltshire._

Mary stares at the letter, stunned. Of all the people she hoped would rally to her banner, this man was the one, above all others, that she would never have expected to see. Does he think her a fool? A credulous idiot who would take his blandishments at face value?

Then she laughs, a harsh barking sound, "It seems that our hopes of support from the Nobility have won us a most strange companion!"

Intrigued, Susan takes the letter and reads it, "Would you accept his pledge of loyalty, Majesty?"

"Even one so rendered?" She answers, "God's wounds, I would not! He is the father of that strumpet! That Whore! He can only have come to me because she has rejected him - and I dread to think what he has done to win _that_ from her!"

"He is devious, Majesty, yes." Susan continues, "But, should his pledge be sincere, his knowledge of the court would be most useful to you."

" _If_ his pledge is sincere - which I singularly doubt."

"From my time at court, Majesty," Jane muses, "I recall that he was a staunch reformer, and a great opponent of the late, most lamented Sir Thomas More. Thus I cannot see how he could even consider such a thing as this."

Mary pauses, "He is indeed a reformer - I had forgotten that." She agrees, "Then I shall test him. If he is truly repentant, and offers his loyalty to me, then he must come to me as a true and practising Catholic. To repudiate his adherence to the reformist heresy would prove all but impossible if he has not truly seen himself to be in error."

"So you shall write to him?"

"Not immediately. I shall let him stew awhile - and he shall think that I have not received his letter, or I have ignored it. Should he write again, then it is likely that he is indeed intent upon offering his support to me. And thus I shall make that demand of him. No one shall serve me if they adhere to heresy - I am determined upon that point. I intend to root it out of England, and thus all who are a part of my Court must abjure it upon pain of death. If he cannot do it, then he cannot serve me."

She stands up to allow her dressers to begin unlacing her garments in order to dress for the evening. Strange though Boleyn's approach may be - if he is able to abandon his heresy, then perhaps he might be of use to her after all.

* * *

Orithyia moves with a gentle pace around the paddock, still attached to a leading rein held by Sir Anthony Browne, but even as she does so, Anne can see that Elizabeth has taken to riding with ease. They still ride upon soft ground, of course, as the risk of a fall is ever present, and two pages - granted special dispensation to handle the Queen's Person - trot along either side of the plodding pony to right her should she lose her balance. It would not, after all, do for her Majesty to be thrown.

It has been a long morning - the Council have been rather argumentative today - and she is glad to be free of the stifling atmosphere in the Council chamber. The report into the establishment of charitable institutions has, inevitably, raised hackles amongst those of privilege who would be expected to donate some of their largesse towards the welfare of those who have nothing, and the discovery that the men of Parliament are likely to require some means of taxation to fund such works has not gone down well. Such irony that one of the wealthiest men at the table, Mr Cromwell, has stated to all that he shall gladly accept such taxes to aid those of lesser state. But then, if the Council strike the measures down, he shall not have to pay them.

She smiles to herself as she remembers that comment, spoken with dry humour. He is not blind to his own faults - but he can be free to jest upon the matter as he maintains funds for the relief of the poor in particularly troubled times. It is a source of discomfort to her that those funds were first established by Cardinal Wolsey - a man whom she hated implacably - proving that, for all his sins, he had the capacity to care for those who did not share his privilege. Jesu - she has been living in a cloud of ignorance.

She turns at the sound of footsteps crunching upon gravel, and sees Cromwell approaching. There is no sense of urgency about him, and he carries no papers. Instead he is booted and gauntleted, clearly intending to ride. Keen upon hard work he may be, but he is not immune to that call of racing upon horseback, free as the wind in his face. She understands that. She hears it, too.

"Majesty." He stops, and bows, as is required.

"My Lord High Treasurer." She smiles, accepting his courtesy, "Whither are you bound?"

"Merely to enjoy the parkland, Majesty." He admits, "I have not done so in considerable time, and the offices are uncommonly stuffy this afternoon."

"Would you be discomfited by company?" she asks, then, "It is more pleasant than to ride alone. One cannot converse much with a horse."

He pauses at that, uncertain, "Forgive me Majesty - but I do not think it appropriate for you to be in my company unchaperoned."

"Oh, pshaw - you are my closest adviser, and I am a widow who is still in mourning. I am tired of matters of state, and of policy. I wish instead to enjoy an afternoon's ride with interesting and intelligent conversation." He is near old enough to be her father, for Heaven's sake. Why would anyone believe that she would wish to take him as a lover?

For a man usually utterly unreadable, his uncertainty is obvious, and she wonders why, "Why are you so unwilling to ride with me, Mr Cromwell?"

Now he looks deeply embarrassed, "Forgive me, Majesty - but it is entirely to avoid gossip. I am hardly unaware of my reputation about the Court. Regardless of my true motives, I do not think it unlikely that malicious persons might claim that I was intending to marry you for my own benefit."

Why is she surprised at that? All know that he is ambitious - but to attempt to win her affections with the aim of marriage? God have mercy! But then, in a poisonous wasps' nest of intrigue, the motives of all, however noble in intent, are always subject to double meanings and misinterpretation. Any rumours of impropriety upon his part shall certainly reflect poorly upon her - and thus he demurs from an activity that is intended solely innocently. She sighs, a little dejectedly.

"Perhaps if Miss Horsman were to accompany you?" he asks, looking across at the Queen's obligatory companion. Privacy, after all, is not permitted to one who wears a crown.

Seeing the look of horror upon the woman's face, Anne laughs, "In spite of her name, Madge is most unhappy in the saddle, Mr Cromwell. I think, if you are prepared to await her, one of my other women might be willing to take her place."

He bows again, and she turns back to Margery, "Madge, could you send for Lisbet, please? She is the best rider amongst my ladies - ask her to ensure she is in a riding habit."

"Yes Majesty." Margery bobs a curtsey and calls over a passing steward to deliver the summons.

Anne turns back to the paddock, "Have you news from Hunsdon?"

He nods slightly, "The letter was received largely as I expected - with scorn. The lady is, however, interested to ascertain the sincerity of the approach, and thus intends to ignore it in hopes that another shall follow. At which point she shall demand that the writer abjure the reformed church - that is, it appears, a matter that she considers absolutely immutable - for it has not occurred to her that not all men cleave sincerely to their faith. She does - and thus assumes that all men do."

"Given who has approached her," Anne observes, "I have no doubt that she shall be wrong. If it results in gain, then he shall swallow bell, book and candle without hesitation or scruple. He would kiss the feet of the Antichrist himself in exchange for wealth and privilege."

She speaks with such casual candour that Cromwell looks quite startled. She might be speaking of her own father, but she has been a pawn in his plotting for much of her life, and knows full well where his loyalties lie.

Anne turns back to him, "And the Lady has no idea who hides within her train?"

"None." Cromwell answers, "I placed an observer amongst her women from the instant that I knew his Majesty's intentions for his invalid marriage, and his requirements upon me to participate in the annulment proceedings. The age of the Lady suggested impulsiveness, and I thought it would be useful to know what her mother was thinking - though I did not appreciate that the two would be separated. That said, that use changed when she moved into her Majesty's Household, and I thus retained the observer in case of any plots that might foment about the then Princess."

"So she would not suspect?"

"No - though I have asked that one of the household appointed by your Majesty monitors the watcher's activities as well, in case her loyalties change."

Anne's eyes widen, "You think of everything, Mr Cromwell."

"I must, Majesty, if I am to survive." He answers, simply, "And if we are to bring the Queen Elizabeth safely to her coming of age."

His eyes are upon that young girl, now dismounted and giggling delightedly as Orithyia nibbles a half of an apple from her hand, "I was not granted the privilege of seeing my daughters reach womanhood - and thus I shall give my all to see this child reach that state."

There is a note of real sincerity in his voice - a painful sadness tempered by the presence of another girl that he can help to nurture in the absence of those that he lost. Wishing that she could link arms with him as she once did with her father, and knowing she cannot, Anne smiles at him, "Thank you."

* * *

The atmosphere in the offices is revoltingly warm, and the clerks are sluggish in response. While they work, they do so with a dull slowness, and conversation is slight at best. The turnspits in the kitchens might be granted limitless ale in order to endure the heat of the fires, but that courtesy is not granted to the men of the offices, and most look miserable in their heavy doublets.

Seated beside an open window, Rich works his way through a long list of minor nobles who might serve as hosts to a royal progress. In the old days, when Henry travelled across England and looked to his nobility to house him at their expense, it was quite possible to be financially ruined by the presence of the Court. Not only the dreadful expense of providing for a King who expected none to be spared, but also to house the enormous numbers of retainers, courtiers, servants and other hangers-on that inevitably expect to accompany a royal entourage. He has struck several houses from his list already, as the owners have not yet recovered from the last progress - and that was nearly a year ago.

His heavy simarre has been abandoned, draped over a nearby chair-back, while his doublet is open and his ruffed shirt unlaced at the throat. In this heat, he has no interest in propriety, and hopes that no one of substance enters the offices and sees him in such an unseemly state. While the Lord Treasurer has found the time to go out into the park awhile, he is keen to complete the work for the progress as quickly as he can, as this ghastly heat seems to be set for some time. The sooner they can get away from Whitehall and a river that can only grow more noisome as the weeks progress, the better.

The clerks scatter at the sound of footsteps, and he looks up to see that Rochford has arrived. The apparent rapprochement between the Queen and her brother has left Rich uncertain of where he stands with the Viscount, particularly after the man struck him and blackened his eye in the midst of his confrontation with the two male Boleyns as they demanded to know what had been done with Norfolk's proclamation.

Rochford shuffles awkwardly as he stands alongside Rich's desk, and has the grace to look at least vaguely embarrassed, as they are now allies in the face of a worse betrayal by Wiltshire. Norfolk might well be a spent force - for now, at least - but Wiltshire is still dangerous, and thus they are tied together in the midst of an alliance that stands against him. Besides, he has not forgotten Rochford's convinced assertion that Anne would fail to rule England well. How ironic that he is now part of the faction that aims to assure that she succeeds.

"How goes the list?" he asks, eventually.

Being a man more than capable of unpleasant spite, Rich is tempted for a moment to make matters more difficult for the awkward man at his side by being stiff and uncooperative. In the face of all that has occurred, however, he decides such an approach is pointless, and looks up with as much amicability as he can muster - which is likely not as much as it ought to be, "Middling well, my Lord. I suspect that her Majesty's entourage shall be smaller than that of the King - as her full Court is still becoming established. Consequently, the number of houses that we can visit is larger than it might have been - for some who served as hosts to his late Majesty have not recovered their former wealth after his last progress."

They resume that uncomfortable silence again, until Rochford snatches at a chair and sits down on the opposite side of the desk, "I cannot permit this to continue, sir. If we are to work together, then I feel it is important that I offer my regrets for our…argument…following her Majesty's proclamation. You and I have both returned to the fold in the face of betrayals by those whom we thought to be our friends, have we not? Therefore, I can only ask that you accept my sincerest regrets and apologies for my threats and my violence against you."

Rich looks up from his papers, rather surprised. Being a mere Knight Batchelor, to receive an expression of remorse from a Viscount is all but unheard of, and the contrition upon Rochford's face suggests that the offer is sincere. Not being familiar with the members of the Boleyn family as Cromwell is, he knows nothing of Rochford's character - and thus has only ever seen the rakish womaniser and plotter, not the cheerful, loving brother that was hidden behind that altogether more brutal mask.

He is tempted - again - to make the apology as difficult as he can, but - again - rejects the idea as unworthy of his new allegiance. While they have won over the Council, and Parliament, they must still win over England and ensure that Mary does not step forth to take all that they have achieved. He cannot afford to be anything other than magnanimous, and so he nods, "I accept them, my Lord; willingly. If you are keen to do so, perhaps you might wish to review my list - there may be other noblemen of suitable state to house us that I have missed."

To his surprise, rather than merely act as though the acceptance is his due, Rochford smiles cheerfully and drags the chair around the desk to sit beside him, "Show me."

Bemused, Rich complies, and before long the pair are leaning over the list, engrossed in discussions as to which house might be suitable, and which not. By the end of the afternoon, they have narrowed down the number of houses to a selection that shall support a limited itinerary, and their former enmity is quite forgotten.

"I think the Regent shall be most pleased with this." Rochford says, examining it, "And we can get out of this hellhole. And not a moment too soon." He is blotting at his forehead with a kerchief.

Rich looks equally pleased. As for escaping the heat of London, he could not agree more.

* * *

Anne reviews the list that has been put together by Rich and her brother, and nods approvingly, "Have the owners of these houses been approached?"

"Letters were dispatched to all of them yesterday by fast horse, Majesty." Cromwell advises, having overseen the procedure himself, "We hope to receive responses by the end of the week, as the distances are not great. It would be too great a burden upon her Majesty to travel as far north as Warwick, or Coventry, so we envisage visiting St Albans, Aylesbury, Oxford and Donnington, as the castle there is now in Royal possession." He pauses, "I should like to express my gratitude to the Lord Privy Seal and the Viscount Rochford for their work in preparing this itinerary. It was, after all their collaborative effort that created it."

"I am most pleased." She smiles, "Thank you."

The Council meeting finished an hour ago, and now she meets with her closest advisers, a small group that she considers to be her trusted inner circle. Rather than have her councillors argue endlessly over which minor nobleman deserves the honour of a royal visit, and then who should attend, and how much it shall all cost, better to present it to them as a _fait accompli_ and graciously advise them that they shall be required to attend at least one meeting while travelling, and thus assure them that they shall not be left out. That said, she has already decided that Southampton - the most capable of the men who are not within her group of immediate advisers - shall remain at Whitehall to ensure that the Government continues to function in their absence.

It is a small group - but one that she has selected for their skill, rather than because they amuse her. The days when Henry's closest confidants were men who had varying degrees of skill to offer in terms of ability, but who allowed him to pretend that he was a youth again, are over. Her only sadness is that her father is not amongst them - but, unlike George, he seems quite unwilling to admit to being wrong, and so he looks elsewhere for advancement. She has, instead, two skilled politicians and a friendly brother at her side, along with her sister in law. Jane might not be a member of the council: as a woman, that would be impossible, but she has proved her discretion, and the fact that George seems to have apologised to her as much as to the Lord Privy Seal has tightened the bonds of growing trust that hold them together as a loyal unit. Even though a reversal of fortune has brought both her brother, and Mr Rich, to her side, they have set that behind them, and seem keen to serve her with the same loyalty and diligence that she has already seen in her Lord Treasurer.

She has a crowned daughter. She has a unified council. She has Parliament. She has a trusted inner circle. All she needs now is the love of Elizabeth's subjects - and hopefully a progress shall lay the foundations to win it.


	20. On the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! All appreciated as always!

Elizabeth is very excited, "When can we go, Mama?" she is almost dancing around the room in anticipation of a journey out of the Palace, "Can we go today?"

Anne smiles at her as the girl whirls about, Lady Mille-Fleurs in her arms, "Alas, no, my darling - we cannot go today. Your Council still have much to organise."

The girl pouts, but does not object, instead withdrawing to a seat to talk to her doll about what she might see, and what she might do, while on progress. To her, of course, it is a grand adventure, an exciting journey to new places.

"Mama - can Mary come, too?"

Anne freezes inside at the child's request. She should've anticipated it - of course Elizabeth would want Mary with her to share her joy. They have, after all, shared almost everything else in her short life. She is blissfully unaware of all that is hanging upon this progress: to her, Mary is a beloved sister and trusted confidante; not a dangerous rival for her crown.

It proves to be something of a struggle not to turn and issue a flat 'no'. Mary has, of course, always been a thorn in Anne's side in a way that Elizabeth could not hope to understand at such a young age. The daughter of the woman she displaced, loved as she is not. To bring Mary would destroy the entire purpose of Elizabeth's progress, as it would restore the wretched girl to the consciousness of her own daughter's subjects; but what does a small child know of such things? "I am sorry, sweetheart - Mary is not able to join us; she has other work on hand." She forces herself to speak of the little bitch in kinder terms, "She does, however, send you her deepest love, and hopes that you shall enjoy yourself." It is a lie, of course - Mary has not even been consulted about the progress, and will know of it only through her supposedly 'secret' channels of communication. She has no hope of countering it - for she cannot go on progress herself. She cannot leave Hunsdon without the Queen's permission - and by extension, that of the Regent.

Anne sighs inwardly as Elizabeth's face falls, disappointed that her beloved sister will not travel with her. She knows that Mr Cromwell disapproves of her rabid hatred of the girl - but he can no more understand the deep loathing of a mother for a rival to her own child's rights than Elizabeth can. He is a man - and what can men know about how deeply and implacably a woman can hate? Besides, she is not at all unaware that Mary - given the opportunity - would have her burned as a traitor, and would undoubtedly watch, claret in hand and sweetmeats at her side, enjoying her own twisted revenge…

"Your Majesty." Mistress Champernowne's voice intrudes upon her vicious reverie, and she looks up, startled, as Elizabeth's companion approaches her daughter, "I have a new volume of latin texts just arrived from Mr Grindal, would you like to see them? I shall read them to you and we shall translate them together."

To most children, such an offer would be met with disinterest or even outright disdain; but Elizabeth is not most children. Immediately, she is interested, "May I, Mama?"

How strange that a child so young should regard Latin translation as a form of play. Forcing herself to smile, Anne agrees, "Of course you may, my Elizabeth. Go to - and do not let Miss Champernowne think she is cleverer than you!"

Elizabeth laughs, delightedly, and trots across to join her companion, who smiles and curtseys to Anne, before departing with the Queen.

Alone, Anne shudders inside at the vicious bile within her for Mary. Again, she recalls the time that she seriously considered ordering both Arthur's widow and her illegitimate creature to the block in order to be rid of them; had she truly been so blind as to think that Henry, and her daughter's Subjects, would have forgiven such an act? No - the time for such wilful blindness is long past, and she must see things as they truly are. She does not have the love of the people of England, and any act against Mary would - even now - leave her even more adrift. All that she can do is hide the wretched child away from the public view, and hope that they forget her.

Another knock upon the door captures her attention, and she looks up as one of her junior pages enters, "Majesty, Mr Cromwell is without, and seeks an audience."

"Thank you, James. Show him in."

He has no portfolio today, so there is no official business to be conducted. Instead, he seems quite pleased about something, "Majesty, forgive my intrusion. Her Majesty has been granted a gift by the Worshipful Company of Mercers, delivered under the escort of Mr John Aleyn, the Master thereof. It is in the Mews, and requires your inspection."

Anne is intrigued - the Mercers are the first in precedence of the Livery Companies of the City of London, and a gift from them to their Queen shall be very fine indeed, "What have they sent, Mr Cromwell?"

His expression becomes rather impish, "That would spoil the surprise, Majesty."

That, at least, is a relief - for it indicates that the gift is one that shall be pleasing, "Then we shall repair to the Mews, and I shall be surprised. Lead on, Mr Cromwell."

John Aleyn is a short, stocky man with a slightly pocked face and pleasant, but not fawning, manner. His clothing is of excellent cut, which suggests wealth - not surprising given his position as the Master of the Mercers - but it is not ostentatious, which equally suggests that he is modest. His bow is courteous, but not florid, and Anne smiles at him, "I believe you have delivered a gift for her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth?"

"Indeed, Majesty," He says, in an unexpectedly deep voice, "It is our great hope that she shall be pleased to receive it."

"She is otherwise engaged at present, Mr Aleyn, so I do ask your forgiveness for her absence. I should be pleased to review it upon her behalf, if that is suitable?"

"Most suitable, Majesty. Please - allow me to show you."

Anne and Cromwell follow the Master through into the main yard, and she stares in astonishment at what awaits her. A new, most finely built travelling litter for her daughter has been sent, harnessed between two thickly maned white rounceys, each bearing harness of rich red leather tooled and trimmed with gold embellishments. The frame is solid, English oak, carved with oak leaves, roses and crowns, roofed with thick, black hide to repel rain. The curtains are of red velvet, and can be swept back to show off the occupant within. While Elizabeth's usual litter is very fine, this is magnificent - an ideal vehicle to carry her in comfort from house to house.

"Mr Aleyn," her pleasure is entirely genuine, "I cannot find sufficient words to express my gratitude for such a magnificent gift for her Majesty. I can, however, assure you that she shall be delighted to receive it."

He bows, "Thank you, your Majesty - we have also provided a fine Jennet for your use." He looks across to one of the grooms, who leads forth an equally well harnessed chestnut horse with a thick white stripe down the front of its face. As she intends to present herself as the very model of chastity - the saddle is a side-saddle, carefully upholstered in padded crimson velvet. When she hunts, she always rides astride; but she has learned well that the people of England regard her as something of a strumpet, and thus to do so in public might serve to spark comments speculating upon other stallions that she might have ridden.

"I am truly grateful, Mr Aleyn; please do convey our deepest gratitude to your Liverymen for our gifts - they shall be put to good use upon her Majesty's progress - that, I can assure you."

He bows, deeply, "I shall do so, Majesty. God save the Queen."

"Thank you." She watches as he rises, backs away as required, then turns and departs.

"You were right, Mr Cromwell." She says, as he steps forth to stand alongside her, "It would have spoiled the surprise."

He smiles, "I thought you would like it - and it seemed appropriate to allow you to see it for yourself unprompted."

"Elizabeth shall be presented most richly - now, of course, we must be ready to do so. How soon can we depart?"

"I should have received the last confirmations of the supplies for the baggage train by the end of this week. If that is done, then we can depart upon Monday next."

Anne nods. From next week, Elizabeth shall be the Queen of the People's hearts, and Mary shall be naught but a distant memory.

And that, at this moment, is all that matters.

* * *

The column is not as enormous as the one that followed King Henry when he and the Queen Regent went on progress last year; but it is, nonetheless, impressive in both size and colour. They shall not go far today, travelling only to Hatfield, so that the young Queen can spend her first night on progress in a familiar former home. As expected, Elizabeth is delighted with her new travelling litter. With the roads as bad as they are, there is no other way to convey her from place to place until she is able to ride well; so she is settled on the cushions, the curtains drawn back so that she can both see, and be seen.

There are drummers at the front of the procession to announce her passage leading a forward contingent of guards. Then comes the Queen, red-clad warders marching either side of the Litter, while Anne follows behind with her brother at her side. Then come the higher ranked councillors, Sussex at their head, followed by lesser Courtiers and the immediate Gentlewomen of the Privy Chamber.

Amongst his fellow Councillors, Suffolk rides in silence. The Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal are riding side by side, discussing - of all things - falconry birds that Cromwell keeps at his home, while Sussex listens, and contributes from time to time. The Regent and her turncoat brother seem at ease, too - though their travels have not yet drawn great crowds, which pleases him to some degree. If the true Queen is to emerge and claim her country from these interlopers, then she cannot afford to be forgotten by her subjects. Shut away at Hunsdon, that is a constant risk - and if the child in the litter overcomes the stain of being the child of the King's whore, then asserting her claim shall be harder still. What little news he has received from Europe is only vaguely optimistic - the Emperor has stated that he would look upon Queen Mary with favour, but that is all. He would be pleased at her success, but seems unlikely to offer any means to aid that objective, as it is politically expedient at this time to avoid being seen to interfere in the rule of the young usurper that has been set upon the throne by those who wish to use her for their own gain.

He has no ill will towards the child - after all, children are hardly to blame for their parentage; but nonetheless, she is not a legitimate child, for her mother's marriage was invalid - and thus she should not wear the crown. Once matters are set right, he has no doubt that Queen Mary shall view the child with kindness, and grant her a comfortable home in which to live - even though such magnanimity cannot be granted to those who have put the crown upon her head.

He has written to her to advise her that the Emperor views her with favour - if only that - and also of the progress, of course: she needs to be aware of it, even if there is nothing that she can do to circumvent it. He has also counselled her to exercise caution for the time being, as there is every hope that the people of England shall show no interest in the babe that rules them. Her coronation was a success, certainly, but it was planned to be - and entertainments, accompanied by free victuals and wine, brought people out in their thousands to celebrate. Now, however, there is no spectacle beyond that of the procession alone, and thus crowds can only occur spontaneously. So far, it seems that they have not.

Gradually, however, people who are out in the fields are drawn to the sound of the drums as the procession wends its way out into the countryside, and the word that the Queen is near begins to spread. To Suffolk's growing dismay, the colourful procession attracts more and more peasants, who set down their hoes and mattocks, and emerge from the fields to see who is passing by.

"God bless you, little Majesty!"

Hell, now someone has revealed the identity of the child in the litter. In spite of himself, Suffolk cannot stop himself looking up and down the column, wondering who amongst the throng threw out the hint - but it seems that there are some amongst those who have gathered who recognise the arms of Royalty, and so the news is out.

"Saint's blessings on great Harry's babe!" someone else calls, and then more voices raise in excitement. He cannot see into the litter, as the back of it is a solid wall of oak, but he can tell from the enraptured expressions, and the raised hands, that Elizabeth has recognised that the calls are for her - and that they are benign in intent - and thus must be waving to them.

Ahead of her simmering Councillor, Anne makes no attempt to draw attention to herself. Her clothing is magnificent; a russet-red habit of heavy, brocaded silk that drapes demurely over the side of the horse's flanks as she rides side-saddle. It is not her preference to do so, as she has always found greater control of the animal through riding astride, but she has no wish to hurt her daughter by prompting cruel comments. To the people at the side of the track, she is their precious baby Queen, and her ladies and Council ride behind. Few know what she looks like, after all. There might be cat-calls sooner or later - but for now the mood is celebratory, particularly as she has granted the rearguard purses of fine gold sovereigns to distribute to any children who watch them pass.

At least no one has mentioned that dread creature still buried at Hunsdon. Perhaps they think her dead like her misbegotten mother. That would be most suitable - though unlikely. Capable though she can be at fooling herself when she wishes to, Anne knows better than to blind herself to that danger - it is not merely she who shall pay the price if she does so, but also her child.

The approach to Hatfield is well lined with well-wishers, as Elizabeth is known in these parts, and the calls to her are delighted, for their little Princess is now their Queen. In some ways, that love has helped to blot out some of the stain of her mother's reputation - and thus even Anne is recognised and recognised, for one of the older men of the Estate calls out to her, "God bless her Majesty the Regent, mother of our Queen!"

She would puff up with pride - but for the knowledge that it is likely to be the last time she hears that on this journey. If they can keep the worst of any opprobrium from Elizabeth's ears, then that alone shall be a great achievement - as it is, not all of the people around the man cheer in response to his call - though enough do to conceal the number that do not.

In spite of the shortness of the journey, Elizabeth is clearly very tired, and does not object to Mistress Champernowne's promptings that it is time for bed. The evening is drawing in, and thus the Queen shall be served a light meal in her chambers, before retiring. For the rest of the court, however, there is supper, and dancing.

* * *

The kitchens at Hatfield have not been obliged to produce a meal of royal proportions for many years, and thus the servers who enter with the first remove have no idea whether they have insulted their guests with a poor display, or have embarrassed them with far more than is appropriate. Thus they enter, accompanied by trumpets and kettledrums, bearing sides of beef, haunches of venison, great steaming loaves of bread and stews of mutton swimming in rich, sweet sauces thick with spices and dried fruits.

Seated at the high table, George to her right, and the senior men of her Council either side, Anne looks at the parade of victuals with mildly hungry interest, though her appetite has never been voracious. The dish set before her is a well roasted fowl - as per her own request - served upon a garnish of roasted onions, thyme sprigs and late summer marigolds. Most would look upon a fowl as food fit only for those of lesser means, but she finds it more digestible after a long day in the saddle - and certainly the men who are falling upon the beef and venison with great relish cannot hope to appreciate the difficulty of enjoying supper when one is encased in tight lacing.

The musicians in the gallery have travelled with the entourage, as Hatfield does not maintain a consort. Thus that young peacock Smeaton is at the forefront, playing his lute with that remarkable delicacy that brought him such favour from the King. His instrument is not particularly loud, so it is hard to hear the tune he is playing above the burr of conversation, but there is something about him that concerns Anne - for even though he seems to look about the hall regularly, his eyes seem to be upon her more often than they are not.

"George." She turns to her brother, "Is it my imagination, or is Mr Smeaton looking at me rather more than he should?"

Rochford might once have sniggered rudely at the suggestion, but now he turns to Anne, and his expression is altogether more concerned, "I have heard it mentioned that he has developed a most powerful calf-love for you, Majesty." His voice is low, "While he has spoken of it not at all, his clothing when he knows that he is to be in your presence is far more ostentatious than when he does not expect to see you. Thus rumours have taken flight - though they have lessened of late, for you have not required him to perform in your presence as frequently as once you did."

She is careful not to show any emotion, "We must take steps to curtail such rumours, George." She murmurs, "They are false, and reflect poorly upon both my reputation and that of the Queen. I do not think it wise to dismiss him - for that shall cause equal discussion - but he must not enter my presence without a chaperone of unimpeachable trustworthiness at any time. I will not have my daughter's reputation impugned under any circumstances."

Rochford nods, and sits back, giving no sign that he is watching the lutenist. He had once suggested to his father that they use that foolish behaviour against his sister - but now he is as keen as she to ensure that such rumours are quashed.

Sitting nearby, Cromwell has noticed the quiet conversation, though he has heard nothing. From the surreptitious glances up to the gallery, he can guess with reasonable certainty that they have noticed Mark Smeaton's apparent inability to stop himself from watching the Regent's every move. It has been a long time since he was a young man - and sometimes he is quite convinced that he has lived a thousand lifetimes in a mere half-century - but he is not blind to the possibility that the youth is nursing an unrequited love for the woman sitting two seats to his right.

As long as that is all that it is, of course, though even that in itself would be quite the scandal were it to be discovered. Regardless of whether or not she has invited the attention - and he does not believe for a moment that she has - tongues shall wag, rumours shall form, and her reputation shall falter again.

A part of him, that rather unnervingly paternal figure that has begun to emerge, wishes to approach Smeaton and warn him off, or - better still - dismiss him. Another, however: the stern politician, counsels a wiser course. If he is to act without the Regent's knowledge or consent in so small a matter as this, then he shall squander the trust that has been growing between them since they turned to one another in order to survive. No. That shall most certainly not do - he shall have to be more transparent than that - at least to the Regent. She knows of it - so perhaps she might speak of it to him. He is not sure that he is brave enough to speak of it to her.

He is roused from his thoughts by the trumpets as they accompany in the second remove - though this selection is, thank Christ, a lesser quantity of victuals. Now they are confronted with broiled game birds in calf's-foot jelly, delicate sallets of flowers that serve rather more for decoration than ingestion, and more of that excellent bread. The claret is replenished, and supping resumes, along with the conversation.

Anne looks upon the simple dish of beef-bone broth that has been set before her with relief, for she has eaten her fill and cannot swallow another mouthful of fowl or bread. The cooks have not forgotten her stipulations when she last visited - so long ago - and insisted upon a simple broth rather than another great delivery of victuals that she could not hope to contemplate. Instead she sips delicate spoonfuls of the broth and tries not to think too much of the dangers that still face her. Today, they were travelling through countryside where Elizabeth is known and held in high regard despite her tender years. They shall stay a few days before moving on, for young Jane Radcliffe, accompanied by her governess, shall be arriving on the morrow to join Elizabeth as a playmate on their journeyings, as the two delighted to play together when she was present for the coronation.

She takes some time to consume her portion, partly owing to her diminished appetite, but also because some of the guests at the far end of the tables have only just been given their dishes from the second remove. If she finishes eating, so must they. It seems unfair to make them wait for so long to receive victuals, only to oblige them to watch them being taken away again unsampled. While she delays, she turns over that endless problem in her mind. Mary, Mary, Mary…

So far the wretched girl has remained silent at Hunsdon, perhaps still unaware that her sister is even now embarking upon a progress to win the hearts of her subjects. Mr Cromwell has already mentioned that one of Mary's allies has almost certainly attempted to warn her - but as yet she has not received their missive. She smiles to herself: always so diplomatic - they both know that the spy is Suffolk, but still he refers to the man as though his identity is unknown.

At length, she sets down her spoon, and thus the stewards return as everyone is invited through to another chamber to sample a banquet of comfits, sweetmeats and cottage cheese, with great pitchers of warmed hippocras to imbibe as they graze. Once they have eaten their fill - though Anne wonders how they could possibly want to eat any more than they have already done - all shall return to the Hall where the feast has been voided, and the dancing shall begin.

* * *

Two columns of dancers face one another, the men bow, and the women curtsey, before beginning the steps of a cheerful galliard. Seated upon an ornate chair, her old canopy of estate above her head, Anne watches, and sups at another glass of her favourite eau de vie. Once, she would have been amongst those dancers; but now she remains aloof; aware of the comments that her former flirting inspired, and eager to avoid such gossip again.

But it had all been the game - that foolish, childish game of Courtly Love. Not one of the men to whom she had been so coquettish had ever expected her to be attainable, and certainly she had not intended to be. It had been a part of life in a lively, vibrant Court - until, suddenly, it had not been. The innocence of play stolen and profaned by those who wanted to use it to destroy her.

She does, however, smile to see the Rochfords dancing together as they have not done for many months. His return to her side has been a great comfort in the face of her father's cynical abandonment of her cause - all because he could not have what he wanted. Now, he attempts to ingratiate himself with his granddaughter's rival - and for what? Power that he shall almost certainly not be permitted to have? He cannot be that much of a fool as to think that Mary would forgive him for her reversal of fortune.

And now she has darkened her mood. Cross with herself, Anne sips again at her glass, and looks across to where Mr Cromwell is standing, talking amiably to Sussex. At least there, she can be reasonably assured of loyalty - for, regardless of his faults, and the sins he has committed in his service to Henry, he has never, ever broken a promise that he has made. Indeed, if it were incumbent upon him to break a promise, then he would never make one at all.

Her eyes drift on, and she looks across to the gallery, where the musicians play the final cadence of the dance. Smiling broadly, Smeaton bows floridly as the dancers applaud, before turning to encourage the musicians into a short pavane while those who have stood move to the side, and others step forth to take their place. He is watching her again: though he thinks that he is being surreptitious. His overly fine clothes, the thickly dabbed scent of musk and spice…all of it intended to impress. God's blood - is he so heedless of the manner of gossip in this place that he would risk destroying the reputation of a Queen in his determination to impress her? Why on earth did she include him in the train. Did she include him? She cannot recall.

Cromwell approaches her, and bows, "Majesty."

She nods, "Mr Cromwell." She indicates the chair alongside. It could not be clearer that he wishes to talk to her in confidence.

"Forgive me if I appear forward, Majesty." He says, very quietly, "But I am becoming concerned at Mr Smeaton's behaviour. If he is attempting to hide the fact that he has developed unwarranted feelings for your Majesty, then he is failing most spectacularly."

She sighs, but manages not to redden, "You are not forward, Mr Cromwell." She admits, "I had noticed it, as you have. Was Mr Smeaton invited to travel with the Court?"

"He was not - but it was decided that the Court musicians would travel, and thus he is here by virtue of his musical skill."

"Then I think we shall see what entertainments our hosts can provide." She says, quietly, "We shall remain here for four days, during which time they shall perform. Then we shall move on, but we shall leave the provision of musicians to the lords with whom we lodge. Our musicians can thus return to Whitehall, where they should busy themselves seeking out new music. I have lost count of the number of times I have heard that damned Galliard."

Cromwell nods, relieved that he has not had to make that suggestion himself, "Yes Majesty. I shall see to it that they are informed."

"Shall you not dance yourself, Mr Cromwell?" she asks, her expression impish. She has never seen him do such a thing.

He smiles, "Alas, Majesty, my days of dancing are over, and I fear that I could no longer recall the steps even of the simplest pavane. I leave such sport to the young."

Anne's voice drops again, "And what of Hunsdon?"

He pauses, "I have heard nothing, Majesty. It cannot be much longer before the news is broken - and I await tidings of the discovery, and the response to it."

She nods, "Very well. Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

He rises, bows, and steps back from her to rejoin his colleagues, while George approaches, "Come, Majesty - a dance with your brother."

Enough brooding. Enough worrying. Who shall gossip over a woman who dances alongside her brother? Smiling, Anne raises her hand to him, and allows him to lead her to the floor.

* * *

The stag bounds away from its cover, and the hounds are immediately loosed in its wake, while the riders of the Court rouse their beasts to action and give chase.

Away from the crowds who expect chastity in all respects, Anne is riding astride again, revelling in the freedom of the hunt. Elizabeth is too young yet to participate, but her abilities as a rider are coming on in leaps and bounds, and she is sure that her daughter shall equally delight in the joy of la chasse when she is strong enough to keep up with the pack.

Only the most senior members of the Court are present, so she is free of that unnerving scrutiny that seems even more noticeable now that she is aware of it. Mark has not approached her - even in his enamoured state, he is not so reckless as that - but still his gaze follows her whenever he is near, and she finds it most uncomfortable. In some ways, she wishes she was still ignorant of it - then it was still an innocent regard. Now, however, for the sake of her daughter, she must appear as chaste as ice, and the longing eyes of a lesser courtier do not serve to promote that appearance.

It seems ironic that, for a woman who has never forsaken her marriage vows, she is considered to be a whore, while the man who took so little notice of them that he might as well never have spoken them at all could bed other women with impunity, and fear no comment over his constancy. Even now, all assume that she shall treat her widowhood with no respect: bringing men to her chambers, and her bed - the very thought of which is anathema to her. Jesu - such hypocrisy. But that is the way of the world, and what can she do to fight that? No - the sooner Smeaton is gone from her presence, the better. Innocent his calf-love might be, but unrequited passion can lead to impetuosity, and that is a danger she cannot afford.

The group ride on, their speed sufficient to at least keep the hounds in sight as their quarry flees before them. The stag is young, and nimble - and a fortuitous bound takes it into deeper woodland, where the hunt cannot follow. For today, the animal has escaped them.

The disappointment is easily mitigated by the sheer pleasure of the ride, however, and all pull their horses to a canter, then a trot, before allowing the animals to stop and regain their breath. The morning is still young, and there are plenty more deer in the park, so it is a mere matter of time before they are successful in stocking the game cellars - though they shall have departed by the time the meat is sufficiently matured to eat.

Those of the Court who are less fearless upon horseback are catching up now, and the column moves on, riding at a slower pace across the open ground. In short order, Cromwell is beside her, his expression bland; but she knows he does not approach without good reason, and waits for his message.

"The news has broken." He says, quietly, as they move ahead from the rest of the riders.

"And?" Anne is eager to know that Mary is angry, upset or discomfited - and ashamed of herself for her spite.

"The Lady is most put out." Cromwell advises, "Though she pretends otherwise. She had anticipated the prospect of such a move - but assumed, as perhaps others did, that it would prove to be a failure on account of her Majesty's tender years and dissent with regards to her legitimacy. While we are yet to move beyond familiar territory, the word is out that the Queen is travelling in her shires, and thus her subjects clamour to know whither she is bound, in hopes that they might see her. We have asked priests in the village churches to preach again upon the scriptures that speak of Josiah, the boy king of Judah, as Cranmer did at her Majesty's coronation. Thus we hope that the people shall agree that her ascension to the throne is God's will. For that is so."

"In that case, we shall endeavour to ensure the success of the progress, and permit Suffolk to send those glad tidings to the brat - she is a spent force, and shall soon be forgotten."

"Majesty." He chides, quietly, "Regardless of all, she is still the daughter of our late Majesty. It does not become you to speak of her so." He pauses, "Not, at least, where you can be overheard."

She looks at him, and smiles - embarrassed, "Forgive me. A mother is more deadly than a tiger when defending the name and safety of her child."

"So I see."

The entourage continue on their ride until they reach a sequence of awnings, where the midday meal is to be served. Mindful of the disappointment at the failure to provide a roasting haunch or two on a spit, Anne has decreed that today's repast shall be more akin to those enjoyed when Henry stopped to dine in the midst of a hunt. Several of her ladies, who are not comfortable in the saddle, are present, while Orithyia is tethered to a tree trunk by a leading rein, which gives Anne cause to smile, for she can see Elizabeth and Jane Radcliffe playing some sort of board game together on a small table nearby under the benevolent gaze of Sussex, while Rich stands nearby, an indulgent smile upon his face.

"Mama!" Elizabeth sees her, and rises from her game, her small face lighting up with pleasure, "We have been waiting for you - come and see, we are playing a game called hnefa…hnefta…" she pauses, and frowns, "I cannot remember the name, but it is most exciting!"

"It is an old game of strategy that we have played in my family for many years," Rich explains, "it was described on an old parchment that was found in a collection of papers we had. It was called Hnefatafl - and my grandfather taught it to me when I was a boy."

Anne smiles at Elizabeth's obvious enjoyment - just as she had been fascinated by chess, "Then do not let me stop you, my darling. It shall be a while before we can dine - so please continue."

"Yes, Mama." Pleased Elizabeth turns back to her game, while both Sussex and Rich occasionally make quiet suggestions on strategy and moves. Even now, while playing a game, she is learning how to think like a Queen.

Rochford comes to sit beside her as she takes a seat in the shade of a large tree away from the awnings, "What is it?"

"Mary." She says, coldly, "Even in the midst of my joy, she haunts me; her mother's shade made flesh. Powerless though she is, she remains untouchable - I cannot arrest her, for she has committed no crime. I cannot exile her, for she lingers on in the memories of our Subjects like a disease. No matter what I do, it shall bring trouble upon me, and upon my daughter. And so I do nothing."

He sits back in his chair, "It is better, I think, to do nothing. It did not serve the Crookback to conceal his nephews - even once they had disappeared from view, they were still remembered - and even now he bears the blame for their loss. It was not enough to declare them bastards - and thus he sank into ignominy for killing them."

She does not answer; but she knows that he is right. To act against Mary shall harm only Elizabeth, and thus she must swallow her bile and allow the bastard brat to pretend that she is a Queen. A constant shadow in the sun.

"I cannot do nothing forever, George." Anne says, eventually, "She shall act eventually. How she shall do it, I cannot say. But she shall act."

"And we are laying the foundations of an edifice that shall repel her, are we not?" Rochford reminds her, "As Elizabeth charms her Subjects, so Mary's place in their hearts shall wither like a rose in the frost. Who shall rise to her banner then?"

She takes his hand, "Forgive me - I am worrying unduly, I think. We shall return from this progress triumphant, and Katherine's child shall be forgotten."

He grins at her, "Amen to that."


	21. A Foolish Letter

Mary stares rather helplessly at Suffolk's letter. What can she do? She is trapped in the confines of Hunsdon, for she is not permitted to emerge from the park without what is infuriatingly described as 'an honour guard', and thus cannot escape from what looks to most to be a fine home, but to her is little better than a gaol.

So far, the Concubine has secured the Council and bribed Parliament with a promise of more influence - now she displays her daughter to the people of England in the hope that they shall accept a mere babe in the place of a woman almost grown.

The news that her cousin shall look favourably upon her should she stake her claim was initially most welcome - but it has not been supplemented by any actual commitment to aid her. Might he send money, or perhaps men-at-arms? He has said nothing of that, and no further letters have been smuggled to her from Chapuys, leaving her absolutely without the knowledge that she requires in order to decide whether or not it is safe to demand her Crown.

Jane sits beside her, for they are - unusually - alone in the garden, "What does my Lord of Suffolk suggest, Majesty?"

"Nothing." Mary sighs, "He speaks of my sister's progress, but gives no observations as to the reception she has received from my subjects - nor does he counsel any move upon our part."

"Shall you ask him for more overt advice?"

"I think I shall have to. Our means of passing letters is secure, and thus none shall know of it. I have heard nothing from Excellency Chapuys, so I am helpless to know whether or not the Emperor intends to send me aid in claiming my throne. Furthermore, I am not yet sure whether the Holy Father shall look upon my claim with favour - for there is no news from Rome, either. If I do not have his endorsement, how can I know that to act is God's will?"

"How can it not be?" Jane asks, "You are the child of the true Queen of England, and no decrees, Acts or persuasions to the contrary can gainsay that. It is your birthright."

Mary smiles at her, "If only it could be that easy, Jane. Birthright or no, I must stand against my late father's will, and the laws that he made to prop up the Concubine's dubious claims for her progeny. She has the council on her side - only one man would speak for me - and thus can demand that the peers of the Realm supply her with men-at-arms should I attempt to call men to my banner. Those who were brave enough to hear me would face death, and I could not ask that of the good men of England, not if I cannot be assured of success. The miseries that would be visited upon them should we falter in our cause would be a burden that I cannot set upon those who love me. No - I must have pledges of men and ordnance from the Emperor, for then who shall stand against me?"

Jane nods. She has no political abilities at all, and her naïveté is, at times, quite charming. To her, the very reality of birthright is sufficient to ensure that the Crown shall pass to the one destined to wear it - but there is more to be overcome than false blood. Far more.

"I shall write to his Excellency again, and set out my terms more clearly, I think." Mary says, "The letters are secure, and I am quite certain that, once he is aware of our needs, he shall offer the aid that I need to claim my throne."

Jane nods, and smiles.

* * *

Susan, on the other hand, is far more concerned, when Mary shows her the reply to Suffolk’s letter in her bedchamber as evening draws in, "Majesty, is this wise?"

Mary looks up from the letter she has drafted, her face shadowed in the candlelight, "I have no alternative, Susan - oblique suggestions are achieving nothing but bland assurances of favour. But what is favour if there is no aid at its back? Our lines of communication are safe - none of those set to spy upon me are aware of those who help me. I have not received any news that the Holy Father has spoken in my favour, and thus I intend to ask his Imperial Majesty to petition upon my behalf. Both the Concubine and my half sister might find themselves lacking the love of the people once they have been excommunicated."

"Nonetheless, Majesty," Susan's voice is low; even though the maids are loyal, there are others who might be beyond the closed door, "I would counsel caution - we do not know enough of what is happening at Court. If _she_ has made overtures to his Imperial Majesty, and offered incentives to ally with her, then our cause might be lost."

"I will not accept that." Mary's voice is low, and vehement, "My people, my Mother's loving subjects, shall not have forgotten me - and would welcome the aid of Princes who would aid me in reclaiming my throne."

Her tone brooks no argument, and Susan falls silent, instead busying herself with setting out her Lady's night-linens. Time is running out - that is certain; but if there is no offer of real, tangible support, they are no better off than they were when the King was alive.

"I wonder if the Earl of Wiltshire has thought to write again." Mary muses, as she scatters pounce over her letter. She pauses to blow the powder away, "I am _so_ keen to know if his desperation for power and ascendancy has overpowered his sense of self-preservation."

"That, I cannot answer, Majesty." Susan smiles. The letter from the Earl has become something of a joke between them - the desperate outpourings of a man who has lost his relevance and will do anything to regain it, "He is, after all, most busily engaged in counting ships."

Shaking her head in mild amusement, Mary drips candlewax on the letter, and seals it with a small ring that bears her sainted Mother's device: the pomegranate. Perhaps it should be a simple thumbprint - but she cannot bring herself to do so. She is the Queen, and it does not become a queen to seal letters in so mean a fashion. She cannot send it to her Cousin directly, so she shall arrange for it to be passed to Excellency Chapuys, instead.

"Pass this to Miss Seymour." Mary hands the letter to Susan, who quickly conceals it under an armful of worn linens as the maids prepare to turn down the bed.

It is a risk - yes - but one that she must take. If she cannot rely upon the support of the Emperor, then she shall be forced to act alone; but if she delays for much longer, who shall hear her call?

"I shall do it." She mutters to herself as she takes up her rosary and crosses to her prie-dieu, "With God's help, I shall take back what is mine."

Secure in her determination, she kneels before the Sacrament, and commences her prayers.

* * *

" _Ay, beshrew you! By my fay,_

_These wanton clerks be nice alway!_

_Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay!_

_What, will ye do nothing but play?_

_Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say!_

_Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!_

_With Mannerly Margery Milk and ale_."

The voice of the young singer is sweet and clear, rising above the gentle sound of a consort of viols that accompanies him. The words are a poem by John Skelton, but set to music by the eldest son of William Capell, a minor Baron of excellent means with a large estate on the outskirts of Aylesbury. The man himself, a rotund man of middle years with a bright smile and kindly manner, sits alongside Anne, who has taken an immediate liking to him, owing to his warm welcome to Elizabeth, and the provision of a large number of different games and toys for the child to enjoy in the extensive gardens, or the long gallery if the weather is poor. The fact that he has a daughter of a similar age to the Queen was the primary reason for seeking accommodation with him - but his own reputation is equally good, and he is more than happy to host the entire Court for three weeks.

Elizabeth has retired, and now the Court is being entertained after an excellent supper. Seated comfortably, Anne is relieved that her daughter and little Jane Radcliffe have already formed a friendship with the Baron's daughter, Ruth, and the three girls have spent the morning at lessons, and the afternoon at play. Their journey to this house has been taken along tracks that have drawn people from all across the countryside to see their new Queen, and the cheers have been most heartening.

Her greatest fear has been that the peasantry might ignore Elizabeth, or - worse - insult or fail to accept her; but their procession has drawn nothing but cheers and blessings. Clearly the preaching upon the second chapter of the second book of Kings has borne fruit; though there is also perhaps a sense of novelty: England being ruled by a King's daughter, and not a son. No one has mentioned the dread name 'Mary', and Anne is beginning to hope that her unwanted stepdaughter is fading from the public consciousness.

" _Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought;_

_Now have I found that I have sought:_

_The best cheap flesh that I ever bought._

_Yet, for his love that all hath wrought,_

_Wed me, or else I die for thought._

_Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!_

_Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale!_

_Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!_

_With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale_."

The youth finishes the song, drawing enthusiastic applause from all present. Anne's pleasure is twofold, for the music has been excellent; but there is also no Mark Smeaton, gazing at her with unfulfilled hopes while he drips with jewels and silks.

Across the hall, Rich is sulking rather, as he was given the unpalatable task of discharging the musicians. While there had never been any suggestion that they would be travelling further than Hatfield, the revelation that their services are no longer required was a cause for great complaint and discontent; all of it directed at him. His expression equally discontented, he gulps at his cup of claret, and struggles to find any merit in the song that has just been performed.

"My goodness, there is a thundercloud in the firmament." Cromwell sits beside him, his expression a study in blandness.

"I have been remonstrated with by an overdressed popinjay over a matter that was not my decision." Rich complains, sourly, "In front of servants and people of lesser station. I think I have an excellent reason to be discomfited."

Cromwell smiles, "We are, however, spared a young man's longing glances at a woman that is unattainable - and attendant gossip upon the matter. Think of it as a service to the Kingdom."

Rich is about to retort, but then snorts with amusement, "It is a remarkably foolish service; but if it shall keep my head upon my neck, then perhaps it is worth the embarrassment. My only concern is that Mr Smeaton might fail to keep his tongue stilled upon the matter, and say more than is true."

"I have prevailed upon the bass violist to watch him and advise me should he do so." Cromwell adds, "Any comment of an inappropriate nature shall be met swiftly and decisively. Her Majesty's reputation must be protected from unwarranted gossip, including that surrounding the propriety of her mother's behaviour."

"You appear to think of all eventualities."

"I endeavour to do so." Cromwell looks smug, though it is clear that he is not being serious, "It does not do to be hamstrung by a discontented lutenist, after all. I have my own reputation to consider."

Rich shakes his head, smiling more broadly now, "Where once we feared we might lose our heads, now we fear we might lose our dignity. It is, I think, a fair exchange."

Cromwell is about to answer him, but instead looks across at the screens that conceal the exit to the servery and buttery, "Come, Mr Rich. It would appear that there is a message for us."

"Us?" Rich looks confused, but follows his colleague's gaze to see a man taking care to conceal himself - while still remaining visible to the man he wishes to speak to. He is surprised: it appears that Cromwell is offering him a degree of trust that has, hitherto, not been forthcoming.

"I shall meet you outside." Cromwell instructs, rising to his feet, "I suspect that this shall be a missive concerning a certain Lady of our non-acquaintance."

Leaving him to quietly approach the waiting spy, Rich waits a moment, before setting down his cup and rising from his own seat to depart. To most, he is merely visiting the jakes; but instead, he conceals himself in a quiet corner, and waits. To his relief, Cromwell is not long in seeking him out, a piece of paper in his hand.

"It seems that the Lady Mary has written again to the Emperor." He says, quietly, "And she has played a dangerous hand." He holds out the letter.

Taking it, Rich scans it briefly, his eyes widening, "Jesu - what is the girl thinking? If she wishes to face the Tower, then she has most certainly opened the way."

Reading it more closely, he takes in the contents. Where the girl has previously been carefully oblique, now she is more direct, and seeks to know whether the Emperor shall grant more than mere assurances of favour should she look to claim the throne, and actually provide aid to her in her endeavour. She is looking for financial aid, and for men-at-arms. God have mercy - she is all but inviting the Emperor to invade England and set her upon its throne.

"Do we inform the Regent of this?" he asks, a little nervously, "If she knows that Mary has approached the Emperor to ask for more than mere favour, what is to stop her from demanding that the girl be sent to the Tower forthwith? We are not _that_ secure with the people of England."

Cromwell sighs, "I fear that I must, Mr Rich. I promised the Regent that I would treat her with honesty and frankness. We must alert her to this, and then counsel her to exercise caution."

Rich shakes his head, "That is madness - she is a tigress in defence of her daughter. You know as well as I that she will not be turned from her course if she fears for the Queen's safety and birthright."

"That is a risk that we must take. If we remain silent upon the matter, and she discovers that we have done so, then we shall lose her trust. If we are all to survive, then we must not, under any circumstances, lose trust in one another. Mary is a threat to Elizabeth - that much we can all agree upon; but at present, she has naught but a vague promise of favour should she attempt to raise the people against the Queen. At this time, the united front of Crown, Council and Parliament is giving our neighbours cause to wait and consider how matters shall fall. As long as that front remains united, no foreign Prince shall see worth in promoting the cause of a largely forgotten, friendless girl. Even the Vicar of Rome shall think twice before interfering - for there would be little political value in doing so. Why issue bulls that no-one shall find it politically expedient to heed?"

Rich turns the thought over in his head, "Perhaps so; but Mary has all but given the Queen Regent a reason to act against her, and we must persuade her Majesty to refrain from doing so. I think you shall have more success persuading the tide not to flood."

"Perhaps. Nonetheless, we must do it. Are you with me?"

A pause. A sigh.

"Yes. I am with you."

* * *

_Your Imperial Majesty_

_I write to you in most grievous times, for my throne remains in the hands of a harlot and her bastard progeny. I profess that I am truly grateful for your expression of favour upon my claim to may late Liege Lord's crown - which is a truer claim, sanctioned by God's blessing over his Majesty's first, true marriage to my mother, whom He adjoined, and thus no man can put asunder._

_Thus I appeal to you, in the name of our joint blood, the truth of God's will and my commitment to bring England home to the Holy Father, to grant me aid to restore rightful rule, and the True Faith, to my Kingdom. I have no monies to pay for men-at-arms, and I look to you in hopes that you might raise an army to fight for me as I call all true Englishmen to my royal banner._

_Forgive my forwardness. I would not write in such terms were I not certain of the security of my communications. I plead with you to send your answer to me through the hands of your ambassador, whose advice and counsel I trust above all others._

_Yours in hope,_

_Mary the Queen._

The letter quivers in Anne's hand as her rage rises, though she has so far said nothing. Sitting around the table are the rest of her personal inner circle, and - not having yet seen the missive - the Rochfords are both looking nervous. Rich is also a little grey, though Cromwell remains utterly impassive.

"And you intend to permit the Ambassador to send…this?" Anne says eventually.

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell says, very calmly.

"What of the girl? This is open treason - and you expect me to let it pass?" her tone is dangerous.

"At the moment? Yes."

"I will not stand for this, Mr Cromwell!" finally her temper explodes, "This is an overt demand that the Emperor invade us and overturn all that my late Lord has done!"

"It is indeed, Majesty - but, in itself, it is of little value until we know how the Emperor shall respond to it. She does not know that her routes of communication are compromised, and thus we can be sure that - even obliquely - his Imperial Majesty shall give her an answer that shall be either positive, or negative. If it is positive, then we shall negotiate treaties with France to form an alliance he shall not challenge. If it is negative, then we shall continue to treat with both France and the Empire as though nothing has happened."

Anne is glaring at him, her desire to dispatch Mary to the Tower all but written upon her face, "I will not countenance acts of treachery, Mr Cromwell - to support that bastard pretender, even surreptitiously, does not sit well with me."

Rich's eyes widen slightly, and his expression grows even paler. Surely she does not think that they are acting for Mary?

"Place the girl in the Tower, Majesty, and all you have fought for shall crumble before your eyes. All still remember the fates of the sons of the fourth Edward - they were all but made martyrs, and your dynasty built itself upon the foundations of that perceived martyrdom. To make Mary an equal martyr shall undermine all that we have collectively created - and certainly it shall persuade the Vicar of Rome to speak out. At present, it is not expedient to do so - and we must not make it so. Not until her Majesty's rule is truly secure."

Even now, Cromwell does not raise his voice; but Anne's temper is dangerous, and she is eager to strike out - despite having no target.

"If you are of no help to me, sir, then I have no further use for you." She snaps, "Mary's behaviour must be curtailed, and you offer me nothing but speculation."

"Anne." Rochford looks at her, his expression worried, "This is neither the time nor the place. You have placed your trust in us as your closest advisers - but if you demand that the only advice you are to be granted is that which you wish to hear, then all that we are shall crumble to dust, and Elizabeth shall be Queen of nothing, and no one."

"And you counsel me after all that you have done to undermine me, George?" Her eyes are now upon her brother, "Or perhaps you have not offered me your faith after all! I will not have my child threatened - I will not!"

Now Rich looks as though he might faint. The confrontation is beginning to look very much as though dispatches to the Tower shall be forthcoming.

"Majesty." Cromwell's tone is dignified, and still remarkably calm, "I promised you honesty and frankness, and thus I keep my promise. Do not forget that you also promised me equal courtesy - and that you would not look upon my advice as founded upon any ulterior motive. I give you my counsel based upon the evidence I have before me, and that which I have learned from my sources both within the Kingdom, and without. Until Elizabeth's reign is truly established, and we can be secure that she is safe, we must treat Mary with caution, and the courtesy due her as a daughter of a King. Regardless of the validity of her claim, it is still a claim that the princes of Europe might support if it is politically expedient to do so. Our challenge is to ensure that it is _not_."

Anne turns back to him, her expression dangerous - but he refuses to shrink from that glare, though he is not impertinent enough to meet her eyes. For a moment, all at the table are convinced that she shall call for her guards to arrest him, but instead she sighs, and her temper finally recedes.

"Forgive me." Anne says, eventually, "It is my primary concern to protect the safety of my daughter; and I fear that I have forgotten that it is also yours."

Cromwell's rigid stance also relaxes, and he nods, "Her Majesty is Queen of England by right of blood, and in terms of the law, while the Lady Mary is disbarred from the throne both on account of her bastardy, and the King's will and law. There is no one at this table who would dispute that - and we shall defend her rights against all who might claim otherwise."

"And what of Mary?" Anne asks, much more quietly now.

"She is secure at Hunsdon, and all that she plans is known by us before those to whom she communicates those plans. Furthermore, she is treated generously and her every need is met. Thus the Princes of Europe have no pressing need to speak up for her. Not, at least, while the government of England is stable and in compliance with the treaties that were set in place. Had there been a male heir - even perhaps Fitzroy despite his bastardy - matters might have been different; but there was not. Thus those who sit upon the thrones of our neighbouring realms are content to deal with the men whom they think to be the true regents of England, and have little interest in the woman who sits upon the throne. Once Elizabeth is a woman grown, of course, that shall change - for it is my intention that she shall be a true Queen Regnant, just as it is yours."

She cannot argue with that.

"Very well," She says, a little begrudgingly, "we shall leave Katherine's brat in peace for now; but I will not have her plotting against my child. If it becomes clear that she intends to do so, then I shall brook no disagreement when I have her committed to the Tower."

Rich looks nervously at Cromwell, who shows no emotion. It seems that, in spite of the clear danger of such an act, he does not intend to dispute her Majesty's words: that is a battle that shall lie for another day.

* * *

If Anne had been enraged by Mary's letter, then Chapuys is appalled. His eyes wide, he re-reads the frantic missive for the fourth time, as though doing so shall change the tenor of the appeal, and reduce the clear inducement to a foreign prince to effectively invade England. What on earth is the girl _thinking_?

Eventually, after several cups of wine, however, he sits back in his favourite chair and reconsiders. Mary is, understandably, losing hope that any shall support her claim to regain her stolen throne. Incarcerated at Hunsdon, she has not the first idea that the political landscape does not lie favourably for her - and assumes that her name alone shall inflame English hearts in her favour.

Having lived in this Godforsaken realm for as long as he has, however, Chapuys knows that such an outcome is unlikely while the kingdom is at peace and relatively prosperous. Equally, his master is a pragmatic man, and he has other problems to consider. The Turks remain a threat, while the Emperor is once again facing hostilities from France. With the associated costs of such conflicts, he has little interest in throwing monies or armaments at a small island nation so that a distant relative can claim an already occupied throne. Yes, Mary is a woman grown - but she remains a woman, and thus cannot truly be fit to rule - certainly there would be few countries in Europe that would permit it. While the young spawn of the Concubine is called a Queen, and the woman who bore her claims to be Regent, the true power lies in the hands of the Council - and it is they to whom the Emperor shall make any approaches of a diplomatic bent.

Hard though it is to accept, as the wily Savoyard cares very much for the forsaken child of a King who wanted only sons, it is the truth. Mary cannot rely upon the support of the Emperor should she attempt to raise England against her half-sister. If she is to do it, then she must do it alone. Not even his Holiness is keen to send her aid - not when there are far greater degrees of heresy closer to home. Should she succeed in claiming England, then he shall shower her with blessings - but he shall not help her try. It is not politically expedient to do so. Sadly, in her furious determination to show her piety - and God knows it is genuine - she cannot see that others do not share her fervour, or that they would fight tooth and nail to keep themselves from foreign rule. Even the most staunchly faithful seem to regard the Holy Father first and foremost as a foreigner who is to be trusted only because of his place as God's Prince upon the Earth.

He sighs as he empties his cup again: at least none have seen this deadly missive. Had that happened, he has no doubt that the Concubine would have immediately had Mary escorted to the Tower, and placed under threat of death. Moreover, she would have had all the justification she could ever have wanted - for all would see that Mary has directly appealed to a foreign prince to send an invasion force to overthrow the government of England. A man of Chapuys's experience and skill would not even consider forwarding it on. Were it to fall into unfriendly hands, then the diplomatic rumpus it would cause could be intensely damaging - particularly as the Emperor has no wish to be drawn into squabbles over the ownership the English Crown. No. The only destination for this explosive letter is the fire. He shall wait a few weeks, then write a bland response offering the Emperor's favour once again - but nothing more. To be caught with this would mean only death, and he has no wish to die anywhere but in his own bed surrounded by a brood of grandchildren.

Much as he hates to admit it to himself, he knows that Mary's dreams are empty - and her wish to claim her throne shall never be fulfilled. While England prospers - and certainly the coming harvest looks set fair - there shall be no reason to fly to the banner of a mere girl who has no friends of any consequence in the nobility. Most are far too busy ingratiating themselves with the Concubine to show any interest in the King's first daughter - and without the support of England's nobles, she shall be helpless. No amount of peasants armed with billhooks or scythes shall stand against a phalanx of armoured cavalry and ranks of artillery.

His greatest fear now is that, once aware of the Emperor's abandonment of her, she shall try it anyway. If she does, her cause shall be lost; and, with it, her life.

* * *

The procession has moved on, with the Court travelling now to a very fine manor just outside the town of Oxford. Again, thanks to careful preparation, and appropriate sermons in the churches, the people have cheered and welcomed Elizabeth, who has responded to that adulation with delighted waves and a happy smile. Tiny, pretty and crowned with her father's famed red-gold hair, she has charmed all who see her, and they care nothing for the fact that she is a mere babe.

Riding a few stages back in the column, Suffolk struggles to contain his sour expression. He has heard nothing from the Lady Mary for some weeks, and is becoming concerned at her silence. She would not have given up her determination to claim her inheritance - so she must have acted upon her own initiative. Without his counsel, she cannot hope to know what is truly happening in her kingdom, and it is knowledge now that is the true power if she is to fight for her future.

He looks about, surreptitiously. Rochford is riding alongside Cromwell, and the two are engaged in amiable conversation. While he is not surprised that the other Boleyn child would rally to his sister when his previous faction collapsed, it remains annoying, as his nobility is a useful counterpoint to Cromwell's base-born shrewdness. Add to that the sharp, devious mind of Richard Rich, and it is an edifice that seems to have no flaws or faults. In spite of himself, he finds he cannot help but admire the Regent for her choice of advisers. He wonders who Mary shall choose when the crown is finally upon her head.

He cannot believe that shall not happen. Mary is the true-born daughter of the late King, and thus the crown is hers by right. She shall have to fight for it - and he shall fight as her champion to bring it about - but if she does not act soon, then she shall lose what little momentum still remains, and she shall win nothing but exile, or worse. With little else to do, he composes a new letter to her in his head. Encouragement, a renewed pledge of loyalty - and all the men that he can command. Without an army, she shall be Queen of no-one, and nowhere. Only with men-at-arms will she have any hope of gaining that which is rightfully hers.

The procession pauses to dine at another great house upon the route, where an elderly Baronet welcomes them with a repast of such gargantuan proportions that Anne is concerned they shall not be able to ride on for the rest of the day. The man is wizened, and rather bent-backed, but his welcome is sincere, and he presents Elizabeth with two spaniel pups, which immediately quells her rather nervous fear of his deeply lined and gaunt face.

As their host's hall is insufficiently large to accommodate the horde, the meal is served upon a large expanse of lawns, under great awnings of scarlet cloth embroidered with fantastical beasts and heraldic symbols. People are free to take what they wish, and remove themselves to other parts of the garden; and Rich is rather startled to find that Cromwell has indicated that they should carry their plates and knives to a more distant patch of lawn, well away from the other diners.

"You have news?" he asks, at once.

Cromwell nods, setting his plate down upon a low table between the two chairs they have taken, "I did not expect it, but it seems that Chapuys is no fool. He did not send the letter on to the Emperor, so we do not need to concern ourselves with his Imperial Majesty's answer."

"What shall he do, if he has none to send back?" Rich asks, "Send a false expression of renewed favour?"

"I imagine so. There is little else that he can do. I understand that the Turks have made new attempts to swallow up more of the Emperor's eastern provinces. While that continues, there shall be no support forthcoming for the foolish dreams of a girl in a foreign land. Not if he finds that he must look to us for an alliance against France in the coming days, for I understand that there is renewed talk of war in their lands, too."

"It is at times like this that I am grateful that we are an island." Rich mumbles through a mouthful of mutton. Swallowing it, he turns to Cromwell, "Do you think that such assurances shall prompt her to try regardless?"

"Perhaps; though much depends upon how willing she might be to accept Wiltshire's offer of support. If she does, then she shall have what little monies and men he can supply her, and perhaps those of Suffolk. We, however, shall be able to call upon the aid of a far larger group of nobles - and only a fool would believe that such matters are settled by the ranks of the peasantry. They shall be called upon only to do the dying." His expression becomes rather bitter. In spite of his own rise from such common stock, he knows from personal experience the worth of a peasant in the eyes of a nobleman, "At least the charitable works we have instituted are beginning to become more visible."

Rich nods, though his expression is one of mild distaste, for they have - as the journey has progressed - visited a sequence of petty schools, grammar schools, almshouses and even an infirmary, all of which have been established through the Regent's demanded additions to the existing Poor Laws. It is her intention that they shall continue to remove the obscene excesses of wealth from the Great Religious houses, but it is most unwise to take away those services that the Abbeys granted the peasants at their gates without ensuring that they were available from another source. It is not only the Queen Elizabeth who is now receiving the cheers of those whom they pass on their way. The foolish moniker 'Mother of the Realm' that he suggested entirely in jest has begun to take root in the shires: those who have no interest in the politics of England - for they have more pressing matters of survival to deal with - see a woman who has brought them schools to which they can send their boys, houses for those who have nowhere to go. That, in itself, has won them over. It shall be different in Oxford itself, of course; but here, she has become their protector.

"Were the Lady Mary to claim the throne, I have no doubt that she would confiscate all the lands and monies we have restored to the treasury, and hand them back to the monks - including the almshouses, infirmaries and schools. She could overturn any love that we have gained at a stroke if she did so." He muses.

"Indeed she would." Cromwell agrees, "I have it on good authority that she has discussed as much already with Mistress Clarencieux. It seems that she cannot see the difference between a cloistered order and religious brothers. Most of those who reside within the great Abbeys are unlikely ever to have even seen a beggar at their gates - for they do not leave their walls. Instead they hide behind the great stone edifices of their pulpitums, and expect the lay brothers to deal with such rude creatures."

"And thus those buildings that were once upon Abbey lands shall be taken away from those who now reside within them." Rich concludes, reaching for his claret, "Even she cannot be so blind as to do such a foolish thing. She shall lose the love of the nobility and the gentry if she confiscates their new homes - and she shall lose the love of the peasantry if she has them evicted from their almshouses and their children barred from the schools. No - I do not think her eyes to be so firmly closed as all that."

"They shall not be, if she is well advised - but that is dependent upon whom she appoints to do so. Her options are limited at best, for most are looking to the Regent and her Council, and those who are not are of little account. At this moment, she has only her belief that England shall rise to her banner on the sole grounds that she is who she is. That, I fear, is not enough."

"If she _does_ make the attempt - and fails - what then?"

"Then we shall be hard put to dissuade her Majesty from sending her to the Tower forthwith. I should rather we did not do so - though the alternative is exile, and then she is out of sight, and more able to demand the aid of foreign princes as she can do so in person - though I think they shall be no more willing to hear her than they were to read her written entreaties." He gazes off at some distant roses, "She is in a most cruel situation."

Rich nods, but does not answer. Instead he chews upon a mouthful of bread and sits back in his chair. It is too late for Mary to act with any hope of success - she has but one friend amongst the highest levels of the nobility, and only one other possible ally, who has approached her only in hopes of regaining lost personal power. The King's determination to remove her from the sight of all has, to some degree, succeeded in its intent, and certainly he has heard no mention of the girl's name - even whispered - at any time since she was sent from Court.

If she tries to raise the people against a Regent who is already teaching them to love her, then she shall fail. Hopefully, she shall not make the attempt; but Rich can see the expression upon the Lord Treasurer's face, and he suddenly convinced that she shall.


	22. A Commitment to Convert

The great harbour at Plymouth is a place of bustle and endless movement, as ships are loaded, arrive, unload, depart and remain at anchor out in the Sound. A large, natural harbour, it is an excellent site to house naval vessels, though most of the ships he can see are carracks and cogs: excellent for the work that they do, but hardly helpful in times of war.

Tired of his task, Wiltshire reads over the survey reports of another man that he has engaged to do the work for him, a young man of considerable intelligence by the name of Stephen Monks. Enthusiastic, pleased to be working for the Queen, he has eagerly taken upon himself the work that the Earl should be doing, and his reports are far better and more considered - and, equally importantly, more accurate - than those his employer had bothered to put together.Once upon a time, Wiltshire’s commitment to such a task would have been far greater than now, and he would have compiled a report of that quality on his own initiative; but his resentment at his banishment from court has driven him to abandon such lofty principles.

Monks's report is comprehensive, and makes a number of recommendations for the creation of a suitable haven for naval vessels. As England is hardly under threat at this time, Wiltshire disregards the document, setting it aside to be handed back to Monks for dispatch to Whitehall, and instead ponders an altogether more pressing matter of concern.

While he is not surprised to have received no answer from the Lady Mary - though he now makes himself refer to her as _Queen_ as it is best to get used to it if he is to serve her - he is irked and disappointed. Damned, contrary woman - does she not realise that she has nothing if she has no nobles upon her side? Suffolk's primary talent was having the King's friendship - a man who seems to do naught but accumulate wives, and their portions of course - and now he sits upon the Council and attempts as best he can to pretend that he is relevant to the new government, and a useful spy for the woman they have set aside.

It cannot have gone astray - had it done so, then he would most certainly not be seated in this stifling garret while a hired man compiles reports that he himself was tasked to prepare. His knowledge of the Court ensured that he could find those few servants still loyal to the brat who would be willing to dispatch it in exchange for the retention of their heads. Even now, he has their agreement to pass such missives back and forth, for they believe, in their ill-educated, dim minds, that England shall welcome the unwanted bastard back onto the throne again. That she can only do so with the support of Englands Nobility seems not to have occurred to them - but at least they know that it cannot be a hindrance.

Much as he is loath to do it; much as he despises being obliged to grovel, he knows that he shall have to write again. Regardless of his opinion of himself, he is well aware of her spite for him, and thus is of the view that her entire behaviour is indeed coloured by that spite. Such is the way of women, of course. He has seen that in his ungrateful daughter.

Rising from his chair, he moves across to the window and looks out of the diamond-leaded panes towards the open expanse of the Sound. There is another letter to his feckless son upon his desk, which he shall give to Monks to include in his dispatch, demanding to know why there has been no answer to his previous letter, and requiring him to advise upon all that has been happening. As far as he knows, Anne's child has been carried across England in a litter, but he is keen to know how she has been received. It can only serve Mary's interests if there has been indifference at the very least - and all he has is insubstantial rumours of 'Harry's Bairn' and 'Hal's little Queen Bess'. Surely people are not _that_ shallow? And what has George done to undermine that? Has he done anything at all? Damn him?

Turning back from the window, Wiltshire grabs at another sheet of rough paper, and sets to work on another grovelling missive to the woman that he would rather crawl over glass to avoid. There is little choice. If he does not do so, then he shall never regain all that was taken from him in so humiliating a fashion. If nothing else, he wishes to remedy _that_ injury - and if he can do so tenfold, then so much the better.

At length, he is done, though his temper is hideous by the end of it. Drying the ink with pounce, he blows away the excess powder, then folds and seals the dangerous missive with great care. He has taken careful precautions in employing Monks - a man of equally slavish loyalty as intelligence - and thus can entrust him to ensure that the deadly words shall be set into the correct pair of hands.

Sitting back again, he allows himself to wash away the distaste with the lavish application of claret. If the brat does not reply this time, then she shall have nothing, and no one, to carry her to a Crown.

* * *

Anne is more relieved than she would be willing to admit, as Margery helps her to remove her heavy overgown and dabs at her overheated face and neck with water scented with rose petals. The journey to Oxford has been slow, punctuated with several stops to visit more almshouses and institutions for the relief of the poor, but always lined with people delighted to see their new Queen. To her astonishment, there has been no need to present Elizabeth as a new Josiah, for instead she has become 'Bess', and all are delighted to see her, crowned with her father's most visible legacy, the famed red-gold Tudor hair.

To her credit, in spite of her tender years, Elizabeth has responded to the crowds with delight - and has never frowned, or pouted. There have, of course, been some truly tempestuous tantrums behind closed doors, as is to be expected; but, even now, she understands the importance of show: of being 'King Harry's Little Bess' to those who have walked as many as five miles or more just in the hopes of glimpsing her.

There shall be no entertainments this evening - instead Elizabeth and Jane shall be free to play in the gardens of the College in which they have been housed. No restrictive rules - no demands for decorum. It is her well-earned reward for a long three days in stays waving at excited burghers who seem not to remember the dread word 'Mary'.

In spite of Lady Bryan's protests, the child is dressed in an old, battered dress that would not be fit to be seen in public, and is free - under Mistress Champernowne's supervision, of course - to play as she wishes. Anne can see from her vantage point in her dressing chamber that such play currently involves burrowing in the rose-beds, and shrieking with excitement at the wriggling of worms revealed therein.

A lighter overgown now set over her kirtle, she returns to her Privy Chamber, where a chessboard has been set upon a small table with two chairs, the men ready for play. With no public appearance this evening, she has decided instead to entertain privately, and only her inner circle are invited. There is even a set of virginals against the wainscoting, and she is hopeful that she shall be able to try some new part-songs, as despite having a rather weak voice, George can mostly hold a tune.

Firstly, however, there is her daughter to see to, as her time of play has come to an end, largely because she is too tired to continue. Her protests as Mistress Champernowne is unlacing her dress are mumbled and drowsy - an insistence that she is not at all tired, and wishes to spend the rest of the evening dancing with Lady Mille-Fleurs while her mother sings.

"My goodness, Majesty," Anne is smiling at her, "What has happened, have you bathed in the earth? Never have I seen you so befouled!"

"I have seen lots of crawling things, Mama." She answers, fighting to hide a yawn, "Kat is dressing me for the evening - I shall be clean and Mr Cromwell can show me how to play chess again."

"He can, my precious." She crouches alongside her daughter, who seems hardly able to keep her eyes open, "Though not tonight, I fear. I shall find time for us to do so before we leave here."

Her attempt to protest is lost in another, cavernous yawn, and she concedes defeat, "Yes, Mama."

"Sleep well, my dearest little Elizabeth. I shall come by later - ask Mistress Champernowne to read you a story from my book of French Poesies."

"Yes Mama." Soon to be safely clad in a clean nightgown, her hands and face washed clean, the currently rather grubby little girl snuggles into her mother's skirts, and Anne enfolds her in her arms. To think she came so dangerously close to losing this little child…but for the death of Henry, she might have been dismissed from Court - exiled…or worse…

But that has not come to pass. No - she is alive, she is safe and she has her beloved daughter close by. Planting a soft kiss upon the top of her daughter's head, she smiles again as Mistress Champernowne lifts the girl and carries her through to bathe her and put her to bed.

Lady Rochford is already present when she returns to the Privy Chamber, playing through the cascading refrain of a Coranto. George is at her side, watching carefully to turn the page, and she smiles to see him - grateful once more that she has recovered his love, and that they are united as siblings again. Rich is leafing through the sheets of notation, and it could not be more obvious that he is still highly uncomfortable to be here - welcomed, yes, but present largely through an act of frightened self-preservation, and thus still uncertain of the ground upon which he stands. Only Mr Cromwell is yet to arrive - but that is no surprise to her. Anne is well aware of his attention to detail in all matters: it is highly likely that he has been obliged to smooth over some trivial difficulty or other that seems quite insoluble to everyone and thus requires his involvement.

Several stewards are busy setting out a light meal when he finally arrives, looking tired and not a little flustered, "My apologies, Majesty, one of the pack horses has been taken with a colic, and there was a dispute between the Master of the Horse and the Master of the College over who should pay for a groom to walk the animal and provide a tonic of mint and burdock. It seems that the Master wished to gift the treatment to her Majesty, but the Master of the Horse was most unwilling to leave the care of the animal in other hands."

Anne's eyebrow inches up, "A dispute over something so small?"

He nods, "It appears that the people of England are willing to give all manner of gifts to their 'Queen Bess', Majesty. Thus I was obliged to negotiate between the two, and then remain present while the horse was walked - and could only depart once it had lifted its tail and deposited manure upon the cobbles."

She snorts with laughter, "Such is the life of a grand Court Official."

"Indeed Majesty."

The victuals are easily consumed while occupied with other things, and thus Anne and her Lord Treasurer are soon engrossed in a game of chess while Jane Rochford continues to play the virginals, punctuated with laughter as her husband attempts to sight-sing the words, with wayward results. She is used to such behaviour - he has always been so - and she smiles as she moves her bishop to threaten one of Cromwell's knights.

She watches as he looks over the board, frowning as he concentrates - calculating each move and its consequence. While she is a capable strategist, she cannot look as far ahead as he seems to, and when he makes his move, she is intrigued at its apparent pointlessness - for a pawn has come forth but one square. Then, within three moves, he has achieved checkmate, and she is quite fascinated at how he has done so. It is, of course, a primary factor in his survival as a base-born courtier in a world of nobility - for he plays the game of politics as he plays the game of chess: always aware of the moves he must make, and where they are likely to lead. God, she is fortunate to have him.

The song has changed, and Jane's voice soars gently over the trickling notes of the virginals. It is a familiar song to Anne, and she rises from the chair to stand behind her sister-in-law to provide the counterpoint. Behind her, Cromwell watches and feels again that strong sense of almost paternal pride. In the face of all, she remains strong, and firm. There is, of course, that rather awkward blind spot in the form of Mary, but at least he has persuaded her that she cannot act punitively against her stepdaughter.

Rochford sits down beside him, "Do you think it safe to say that we have won England's heart?"

"At this time? I say nothing." He admits, "The rise of 'Queen Bess' is fortuitous, for it has emerged spontaneously amongst those who see her - and I think it wise to encourage it. It is my wish that we prepare her Majesty to be a true Queen regnant - for I know that her mother would not forgive me if I did otherwise. Besides, she is intelligent, personable and looks to be a great beauty in time. It is our duty at this time to ensure that she is also wise, well governed and well advised; that she can distinguish between flattery and good counsel, and that she understands that it is as important for a Queen to serve her country as for her country to serve a Queen. Had her late father not become so contrary in his latter years, he might well have continued to do so - but he seemed to lose sight of the requirement to serve, and thus saw only his glory and might as King."He pauses, and sighs, “He was a remarkable Prince when he was in the first years of his reign, my Lord.All of Christendom admired him for his piety, intelligence and wit.I know not what drove him to change as he did - but, in time, he changed, and became a dangerous man to cross.”

"Is that not his right - as God's anointed?" Rochford asks, quietly.

"Yes - that is so; but it serves better for Princes to rule with good governance and government - and to limit the foolishness of factions. I am quite convinced that we spent more time plotting against one another than we ever did ensuring the best government of the Realm."

Rochford grins more widely, "But we are noblemen, Mr Cromwell. It is our role in life to see to our own wealth and comfort in the face of all adversity."

Cromwell smiles in return, "Indeed, I fear that to be true - but what of me? I am a man of poor stock who rose to become a great Courtier. There is a new class of men emerging, my Lord - men who have earned wealth through hard work and trade, and have equally become more educated, as I have. Even now, they wish to receive a share of the power held by the nobles - gains that are, as yet, denied them - and thus the agreement that we have made with Parliament offers them that which they seek, and so we have won their friendship and loyalty. Our task now is to keep our promises to them, and thus retain that loyalty."

"Or Mary shall take it?" Rochford asks, in a much softer voice. He is well aware that such words shall spark his sister's temper.

Cromwell's eyes become distant, "I intend to ensure that, should she step forth to attempt to wrest Elizabeth's crown from her, she shall find that the landscape in which she moves has changed so utterly that she shall have no footing upon it. There are many now who would refuse to submit to Rome again, and I do not think it likely that she shall agree to allow Parliament the degree of power that it now has. She is, after all, descended from absolute monarchs who ruled by their will alone." He pauses, "In some ways, I fear, I am hopeful that she shall try - and fail. Thus we shall be free of threat from her once and for all."

"Can you be certain that she shall fail?"

"She has no support, my Lord. At the very most, she can rely only upon Suffolk and what retinue he can raise. Many noblemen and gentry-folk are now beholden to Elizabeth thanks to the granges they have purchased, and see their future tied to the prosperity of peace and good government. Peasants are being given succour through her largesse rather than through religious institutions, and they are being offered the opportunity to learn. Thus they shall be able to read the law, to understand the purpose of taxation, and - should they wish to - to read God's word without being obliged to hear it only from the words of a priest." He pauses, then continues, "It has always been considered the natural order that if you are born a peasant, you must remain one. If you are born into bonded labour, you must remain so. If you are born into privilege, then you are free to live easily upon the labour of those beneath you. It is God's will. But what if it is not? If it was God's will that I remain a brewer and blacksmith, as my father was, then how is it that I am talking to you now?"

"And you think that Mary shall re-impose that rigid structure." Rochford says.

"I think she shall - for she has, in isolation, embraced the faith of her Mother with a fervid intensity that has coloured her judgement. Were she to win the Crown, we would be under the heel of Rome again before the first month was out - and all that would follow would be dictated by the Pope and whatever Cardinals and Legates he would see fit to impose upon us."

"And your judgement is not coloured in the opposite direction?" Rochford's smile is a little skewed.

For a moment, it looks as though Cromwell will object, but he pauses, and sighs, "Perhaps I am, my Lord. I am - after all - a mere man. Moreover, I am a mere man who seeks to keep his head upon his neck. Should we lose, then we all lose our heads - though Elizabeth might be spared out of deference to her youth - and that in itself is a great incentive to succeed."

In spite of himself, Rochford shudders.

* * *

They have spent a week being entertained, visiting, being cheered by crowds, hunting, dancing and dining. The weather has been rather warmer than most would like, and those who have been able to escape into the great parklands around Oxford have done so with great pleasure.

Elizabeth and Jane are spending the day at the house of a minor nobleman blessed with two daughters of an equally young age, and thus Anne is engaged upon yet more visits to almshouses, and a recently opened infirmary - housed in what was once a closed order of Carmelites in the midst of the town. All have been paid for with endowments from the Crown, and through further pledges of aid from wealthy townsfolk in exchange for their names being displayed upon a great scroll of honour so all can see and marvel at their acts of charity.

All is, of course, in Elizabeth's name, and Anne would have it no other way. Even now she is not blind to the presence of a quiet voice inside her that delights in being Queen and wishes to remain so. Elizabeth shall, after all, not be old enough to rule for ten years or more…

Furious with herself, Anne shuts the thought away. To pretend that she is not tempted would be to be a hypocrite - after all, how many princes have been deprived of their thrones by those who heeded that vile little voice? She is aware enough of her own character to know that she is not a truly selfless being; and thus has combated her own temptation with the law. Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich have, between them, established a solid legal edifice against which her own wishes cannot stand.

Margery is at her side today, while a small group of her ladies follow, and her solidly dependable Lord Treasurer is a few paces behind them, accompanied by Sussex, Sir John Russell and Mr Rich. The commissioner in charge of the Almshouses, a kind-faced man by the name of William Peate, is eager to answer all manner of questions over the operation of the charitable works, while those who reside there are equally pleased to meet the benefactor who has housed them.

Except for one.

There are a number of women housed in a wing separate from that which houses the men, and all are seated in a large common chamber. Some are embroidering, while other sit and gossip in the sunlight that comes in through a large window. Peate approaches a younger woman in simple grey homespun, who looks startled, then bobs a very deep curtsey at the arrivals, while the women look up to see that they have a party of visitors.

It is no surprise to Anne that the men remain in a small huddle close to the door, and talk amongst themselves while she and her ladies move amongst the women in the chamber, looking at embroideries, talking to them, and giving out little posies that Jane and Elizabeth have spent their evenings making for just this purpose.

While they are not as artful as they might be had they been made by older hands, the women are delighted to receive them, as they are gifts from a Queen and made with her own hands, and the conversation is friendly and convivial as one of the ladies tells them of her own youth, when she made posies for her sweetheart - a man whom she married.

She has barely finished her story when another voice cuts across her, coldly, "Speak not of such sweetness to a whore, Margaret! That woman stole away a Kingdom from our true Queen - and is naught but a Godless strumpet!"

Everyone turns, shocked, to look at an equally elderly woman dressed in black, who is glaring at Anne with undisguised loathing, "Get you gone from us and take your unfaith with you! There is but one true Queen in England and it is not the putrid abortion that fell from your womb!"

The young woman in grey utters a frightened little squeak, and the other women stare at her in horror, for fear that her words shall result in punishment for all of them.

Anne draws herself up, "If I am to be insulted, then the least I require in return is the name of the one who insults me."

Rather than answer, the woman turns her back; a singular insult. With little to offer in response, Anne turns to the assembled women and smiles warmly, "I thank you all for your kindness, and your welcome. It is an honour for me to spend time with women who have lived long and fruitful lives, and I hope with all of my heart that I, too, shall honour God with a life of service and duty."

They all look most relieved, and bow their heads, as most are infirm and cannot rise from their chairs. Ignoring the one dark cloud in the chamber, Anne steps back a pace, then curtseys to them all. While there is one who has despised her, the rest have not, and she knows how to win hearts from those who are not of her station. As she leaves, her retinue in tow, she is sure she can hear voices remonstrating with the one who dissented.

"Forgive her, Majesty," Peate looks fearful, "Mistress Browne is recently widowed, and had looked to enter a convent - but there are none hereabouts, for they have been closed."

"And her family have not provided a dower house for her use?"

Peate struggles to find a polite answer, "Her son refused to house her - for he is as for the new faith as she is for the old. There was a…dispute…between them."

"Thus she resides here."

"She does, Majesty." Peate pauses, "I do not think she acts so because she is of the old faith - but instead because she is filled with much anger, and it emerges as spite and overt piety. She took the loss of her late husband very poorly, and struck out at all about her in her rage."

Anne stops, and looks at him in sadness, "If that is so, then know that I do not harbour any ill will against her. I am not unaware that I am regarded in such terms - and it is my intention to demonstrate to my daughter's Subjects that they are safe and shall be governed well both by myself as Regent, and, when the time comes, by her Majesty."

He bows deeply, "Thank you, your Majesty."

As she departs, however, Anne feels sick inside. Grieving or not, the vicious rage of the Widow Browne has shaken her to the core. None have expressed such vile sentiments to her - but is that because she has won their hearts, or because they do not feel safe to express them? It is impossible to know - and, while she does not know, she cannot feel secure that Elizabeth's rule is safe should Katherine's bastard attempt to claim the throne for herself.

Cromwell is already by her side, "No haste, Majesty." He knows what she is thinking. He is thinking it himself.

"And if others think as that widow does?" Anne hisses back to him, _sotto voce_ , "And they listen should Mary raise her voice?"

"It is impossible to know how many might answer her call to arms." Cromwell admits, quietly, "As long as the forces we can raise are larger, she shall not prevail. She is disbarred from the succession by law, so she can only now claim by right of conquest - which she cannot do without an army at her back."

Her eyes narrow, "Install more guards around Hunsdon. She must remain within the grounds at all times, and can only enter the parkland escorted by ten or more men. None must be permitted to approach her - but ensure that it is given out that she has asked that people be kept at bay."

Cromwell sighs, "I do not think it wise, Majesty. She is carefully and discreetly watched - but should that scrutiny become more overt, we might lose what we have - and her actions shall go unseen. It is essential that we know what she is planning, and we cannot do that if she discovers that her communications are compromised."

He is grateful that they are in public, as she cannot snap at him. Her eyes, however, are vicious with anger as all of her protective instincts surge to the fore once again.

"I shall keep watch upon her." Cromwell continues, quietly, "As I have done since all of this began. Should there be any suggestion that she intends to conspire against you, then we shall have the evidence to challenge her, and thus any action you take shall be justified and - more importantly - be _seen_ to be justified."

She relents, but it is clear that he is upon rather thin ice, "Very well, Mr Cromwell. We shall depart for Donnington on the morrow. If there is any hint that Mary intends to steal my daughter's rightful inheritance, then I shall expect you to know it, and to be prepared to counter it. If you do not, then she shall not be alone in the Tower."

His face remains absolutely impassive, but his eyes narrow as she moves off. If he does not turn her away from her determined vendetta against Mary, then she is in danger of casting away all that she has gained - and all of them shall pay the price of it.

* * *

The worst thing about being on progress, Rich muses to himself as he sits at a makeshift desk and looks out of the window that he has just opened in hopes of capturing a breeze, is the lack of news from London. Much as he enjoys being privileged enough to travel in a royal party on such journeys, the distance from the centre of government is such that he does not know from one day to the next what is happening.

Once, of course, he would have used it to his advantage against anyone who might stand in his way - but now he is finding that being trusted is quite refreshing, and he would like to keep it that way. Following the unpleasant moment when he overheard a conversation that showed just how easily others were prepared to use him and cast him aside - all thanks to his well earned reputation for untrustworthiness - the discovery that loyalty pays dividends is a novelty that has not yet worn off.

Cromwell is sitting nearby, working his way through a packet of papers that were delivered by one of his many factors - men who give the appearance of working for others, but who are in fact working for him - and he is most intrigued by a paper in his hand.

"Something interesting?" Rich has always been too inquisitive for his own good.

"Very interesting." Cromwell hands over the missive - the first time that he has done so in such circumstances. Their working relations have improved considerably over the last few months.

_Gracious Majesty,_

_Forgive the poor nature of this missive, for I am hard put to secure more suitable writing materials in my current abode._

_I fear that my previous letter to you must have gone astray, for I have not received any answer. Therefore I most humbly seek once more your Majesty's forgiveness for my acts against you. In my vainglorious quest for riches and advancement, I sought to overturn the natural order of things, and the rightful laws of inheritance. In so doing, I thus ensured that you were deprived of all that was rightfully yours to claim, and now I seek with all my poor soul to make right that which was done against you._

_Again, I swear to you that I shall be your most loyal and obedient servant and Subject, and that I shall serve you with honesty, truth and good counsel as England's true Queen, as determined by God, in defiance of all the will of men, who are equal before Him at the time of Judgement and have no right to gainsay that which is His will._

_Equally, I accept that I have, through my vanity and desire for gain, stepped far away from the true Religion, and thus I am most determined to set aside all heresy, and return to the fold of the true Church. I thus eagerly await your answer - and express my hopes that I shall stand alongside you, and those whom you shall appoint to restore England to our Holy Father in Rome, for I am truly a lost sheep and look to the Holy Shepherd to recall me to his fold._

_I look once more to you, as England's true Queen, to restore that which is right in this Realm, for I have placed an unfit woman above you, and regret my actions most deeply. All that I am, and all that I have, is yours to use as you see fit, and I am ready to ride to your side at your first command._

_Thomas Boleyn, Kt & E of Wiltshire._

"He is most keen, is he not?" Cromwell comments, as Rich's eyebrows rise, "For a man so determined upon reform of the Church, it seems that now he wishes to _un_ -reform it in exchange for a seat on the Council."

"If she did not take his first letter seriously," Rich muses, "Then his willingness to abase himself before a Papal Legate most certainly shall. From what I recall, she would accept a man of the meanest talent if he kissed a rosary in her presence." He opts not to mention his own still-Catholic leanings.

"Perhaps." Cromwell agrees, "Though I would imagine her to be more shrewd than that. I may, however, be wrong."

"Is this to be carried on?"

"Mr Monks awaits the return of the document prior to carrying it on. It shall be passed to a senior chambermaid who happens to be related to one of the Seymour retinue, whereupon Lady Jane shall deliver it to her Mistress."

"And this chambermaid also works for you?" Rich is sure that Cromwell has another such woman planted in Mary's retinue.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No - unlike our spy, she is wholly for Mary and is eager to aid the girl in our destruction. Her willingness to be a courier is all that keeps her head upon her neck, for Mr Monks is a comely fellow and she is somewhat enamoured of him. If there were no need for her to pass on letters, in the belief that she is secure from scrutiny, then she would certainly be in Newgate and facing the stake for her treachery, for she has been intent upon plots for some considerable time - though none have come even slightly close to fruition."

Rich shudders. He has only seen one burning - when he was a mere boy, and the sight of it horrified him to such a degree that he has never attended another, "You would do that to her?"

"God, no. Once she discovers that, far from protecting Mary, she has instead helped to betray her, that shall be a truly fitting punishment for her crime. There is no need to pillory her, for she shall be too busy pillorying herself."

"And what shall you tell the Regent?"

"The truth." Cromwell is already carefully heating the wax seal with a hot blade to press it back down again, "I promised her nothing less."

"If this does not drive her to act against Mary, then nothing shall. Is it wise to provoke her? She seems temperate in all things but this."

"She is a mother. Elizabeth is her only child - I should be far more surprised were she _not_ intemperate in defence of her daughter." He rises, the letter in his hand, "I think I shall take a walk around the lake, where the air is hopefully less oppressive. I should appreciate it if you would join me - there is much to discuss over our return to London when we have ended our stay at Donnington."

Rich looks relieved, "And that shall not come a moment too soon."

* * *

Pax chases a butterfly through the ornamental garden, oblivious to the mood of his mistress as she sits in the shade of a rose-thick pergola and peruses the letter that has arrived. It is rather battered, a testament to the circuitous route it has been obliged to take to be delivered to her, but the seal was unbroken when she received it, and she is certain that none have seen its contents since the wax was pressed down.

So - Wiltshire would be willing to abandon his commitment to reform - which is no surprise to her, for the reformation is out-and-out heresy. While his first letter seemed rather cynical to her, his pledge to return to the true Faith does not. It shall, of course, be a simple matter to determine whether or not his commitment is sincere once she is Queen, and she has invited higher ranked churchmen to return to England to examine the consciences of all men in her Realm.

She has been obliged to watch England pulled from the safety and sanctity of the Church, and has clung to her faith fiercely and with such determination that even her love for her late Father could not tear her from it. He was bewitched by that vile whore, his head turned with those tricks that the trulls of the brothels use to tantalise men - and thus threw away his Queen and his Princess for a filthy concubine who even now dances upon the grave of a better and more noble woman than she.

When she is Queen, of course, that shall come to an end. That paike shall be carried through the streets upon a hurdle and set upon a stake, all at once a heretic and a traitor, while those with whom she now consorts shall all be cut open at Tyburn - none of them granted the mercy of being allowed to hang until dead before their vitals are wrenched from their bellies for the baying crowds. Elizabeth, of course, shall be brought into the household as a Maid of honour, where she shall be taught the proper catechism, and then married to a suitable, Catholic nobleman. It would not be right or fair to punish her for the wrongness of her mother - though who is to say what evil has passed to her from her mother's tainted blood?

It shall be bloody, most certainly, but it must be done to remind England that those who set aside the right and proper succession are wrong, and must be punished for their sin. Afterwards, of course, she shall be free to restore the realm to the spiritual jurisdiction of the Holy Father - and the taint of heresy shall be burned out once and for all. The late, sainted Thomas More attempted to prevent England's fall into sin, and was martyred for it, but she shall succeed where he could not - and his name shall be celebrated even as she petitions for his beatification.

Carefully, she folds up the letter and secures it inside her bodice. The previous missive might have been set upon the fire, but she shall retain this as security should Boleyn prove to be insincere in his sentiments. There are too many reformers in the Government of England, and she shall remove them all - only men of the most impeccable religious credentials shall be permitted to serve her.

Assuming, of course, that there are any left.

God's blood, she is blind in this place! She has heard nothing from Suffolk since the Court went on progress, and thus she cannot be certain that her name is even remembered any longer. There are rumours of charitable works, of laws intended to offer succour to the poor - though why that is necessary when it is a religious duty for those with means to aid those without, she cannot imagine. She gives most generously, as do her ladies - and the religious houses are there for those who are truly destitute.

Pax trots across to her, his little pink tongue lolling from his widely grinning little mouth, and she smiles in return. Perhaps she is being naïve in her belief that restoring the true faith shall mend all of England's ills - but what else is there? It is her faith in God that has kept her whole in the months since she was imprisoned in this velvet gaol, and she is convinced that she shall be delivered from her trials in time.

If nothing else, Lord Wiltshire shall help her to see how things truly lie in England, and thus she shall be able to plan from a more informed position. Her realm has been oppressed for long enough, and it is time for her to act.

Her mind made up, she returns to the house, Pax at her heels, already planning the response that she shall send to her newest Councillor. As soon as she has sufficient advice on the best means to proceed, she shall do so.


	23. Alliances

Anne sits back in her chair and sighs with relief. Today has been a long haul in the saddle, drenched in heavy showers of rain that were well separated, but great deluges when they were falling. Even so, people have come out to see their Queen Bess, and it has been difficult to ensure that she is visible, and protected from the wet - particularly as Elizabeth was not at all happy to be hidden behind the thick leather curtains required to keep the rain out of her litter.

Even now, she is astonished at how well received Elizabeth has been by her subjects. While some have looked upon her, Anne, with hostility; her daughter has been welcomed by all, and her new pet-name of 'Hal's little Queen Bess' seems to have settled into the hearts of her people, shutting out all thought of Katherine's bastard brat.

Now that she is here, seated in the chambers that once housed her late husband, Anne chides herself for her uncharitable thoughts. The child is hardly to blame for her mother's unchaste marriage, after all - and yet…

_I recognise only one Queen: my mother; but I have no doubt that his Majesty’s mistress might find some success should she…persuade…him otherwise._

Again, she tenses in rage at the insult - and that pert manner in which it was so coldly delivered, not to mention the manner in which that suggested ‘persuasion’ might be achieved. An intransigent girl who would not accept that the world is not what she wishes it to be. Her mother's marriage was invalid - a marriage to her late husband's brother - and no number of convenient dispensations change that. _He that marrieth his brother's wife, doth an unlawful thing, he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness: they shall be without children._

And so it was - for no son survived their couplings, and thus God turned his back upon their unclean union. An unlawful marriage cannot stand above a lawful one, and Elizabeth is the true and lawful daughter of a true and lawful marriage. Mary has no claim to the throne, and her wish to do so is an affront to God, and to the right and proper governance of the Realm.

Why can she not stop this? Mary has become a dark nemesis that haunts her night and day - and the wretched girl has done nothing but send and receive letters. Perhaps she should attempt to set aside her enmity and extend a hand of friendship. If the girl rejects that offer, then at least she can claim that she tried.

God's wounds - even now she cannot keep the creature out of her mind. Irked, she rises from her chair and crosses to the muselar, seating herself and launching into a soothing pavane. The music has just the degree of intricacy to demand her concentration, but not so much that it contributes to her tension.

By the time she has finished, Margery and Nan have returned from the laundry, where they have been supervising the transfer of her linens from the baggage carts. They are chattering brightly, and she smiles to herself. For a moment, it is as though she is living a year in the past - music, laughter…a marriage to a great King, and a beautiful daughter for him to cherish…

But she is not. Rousing herself, she rises from the seat at the muselar and turns to her ladies, "I think I shall wear the Tawny silk today."

They curtsey and hurry through to her dressing chamber to fetch out the overgown that she requires. Elizabeth might be free to sup in private, but Anne most certainly is not. A scant three hours after their return to Whitehall, and it is time for a multitude of hungry courtiers to be fed. Already her mind is upon the evening to come - she must ensure that she is thoroughly chaperoned, as her unwanted amour shall be in the gallery again, playing his lute and that new instrument from Cremona that he imported at such ludicrous expense. Doubtless he shall be dressed in unwarranted finery again, for he is still paid the wages that Henry granted him as one of his Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. Most do not realise just how much he is paid - no wonder people question his over-done wardrobe.

* * *

"Majesty?"

She raises her head to see one of her junior ushers in the doorway, "What is it, Michael?"

"The Lord Treasurer is without, and seeks an audience."

She nods, "Show him in."

There is no need for Cromwell to advise her of Mary's latest affront - for he advised her of that while they were still at Donnington. What she is keen to know now is whether she has accepted her father's offer to betray his own daughter, and how that shall affect what she does next.

"Well?" she asks, almost before he has accepted her offer to be seated.

"I have no word upon that matter, Majesty." Cromwell advises, calmly, "I have spent much of this morning engaged with Mr Wriothesley and my Lord of Southampton, for a number of letters have been received from our neighbouring princes. I think you shall be pleased at their sentiments."

He holds out a leather portfolio, and she takes it with interest. Within, as promised, is a collection of letters from the major European courts. Set in carefully diplomatic terms, each correspondent sends their congratulations to the Queen Elizabeth upon her accession, and offers friendship to the Queen Regent. Even that wily fox Charles has set down in writing his intention to ignore the squealings of his irrelevant cousin - abandoning her to whatever fate God has set down for her. Immediately, she is pleased.

"Is it worth letting this news be conveyed to the girl?" she asks, attempting to conceal her pleasure.

"I think it likely that she shall already have begun to suspect that the Emperor does not see her claim as being worthy of his support, Majesty." Cromwell does not sound so gleeful at the outcome, "Chapuys has yet to respond to her last letter, despite his former friendship while she was kept from her mother. While it is likely that she shall blame the slowness of her communication channels, she cannot do so for much longer."

"Then keep watch for any note that he might attempt to send to her. He has always favoured the girl, and I cannot believe that he shall not confess his betrayal at some point."

He nods, but does not comment.

"What?" she asks, at once, "do you pity the creature?"

Cromwell looks at her, his eyes sad, "Do you not, Majesty?"

At first, she is tempted to snap a retort at him, but then sighs, "God forgive me. I cannot find it in my heart to pity a motherless girl who has lost all that she once had. But she is my Elizabeth's most implacable and dangerous enemy - and while she remains so, I cannot look upon her in any other fashion."

"And if that situation were to change?"

"In what way?" Anne asks, crossly, "She has never accepted the truth; to her, the Princess Dowager was a queen, and I was naught but a mistress. She shall never amend that view - and you know that to be so."

"I agree that she shall always see her mother in a saintly light - for her mother is no longer alive, and it is in our nature to forget the faults of the departed whom we loved - but should she attempt to raise England against Elizabeth, and finds that England shall not hear her; what shall she do?"

"She shall accept whichever husband I see fit to give her, and remove herself to some country backwater where she can never cause mischief again."

"There is no man in England who is of equal rank to her, Majesty - you know that to be so. She is the daughter of a King, and the granddaughter of Kings. To marry her off to a noble of insufficient rank shall be seen as an insult not only by her, but also by the princes of Europe."

She turns to him, "Then find me a man who shall be of suitable rank, Mr Cromwell. A man in a Protestant nation who shall watch her well, for I shall not have her plotting with her fellow Catholics against my daughter."

He makes to object, but then stops. There is little point in arguing - she shall insist that he do so, and it is a lesser matter. If he must choose his battles, then this is one that he is content to lose - for its outcome shall not impinge upon the future of England to any great degree.

"Let us speak of other matters, my Lord Treasurer." Anne recognises that they have taken the point as far as it can go, "How do things stand with the ongoing closure of the religious houses?"

"Matters have stalled at present, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I had been in the process of establishing the Court of Augmentations to handle the sale of lands confiscated from the greater Abbeys and Priories - and it had been my plan at that time to appoint the Lord Privy Seal to the post of Chancellor, for it is work that suits his capabilities. He is engaged elsewhere now, however, so I think it sensible to appoint either Mr Wriothesley or Mr Sadleir to the role instead - for both are most capable."

Anne nods. The relevance of those old-fashioned institutions has faded. Regardless of their importance in years past, they have become ever more remote from the communities that surround them, and are no longer concerned with offering succour to the poor as they once did. No - they are too wealth-ridden to be concerned with vagabonds and beggars nowadays. Most infirmaries and hospices are funded by endowments from the newly emerging gentry - eager to make their mark by setting their names upon the rolls of honour of those places they found for the benefit of those less fortunate than they. The prominence of Abbots and Priors is no longer what it was, and their influence is waning - the days when younger sons could prosper through entering a cloister are long gone. They have other opportunities for advancement now.

"See to the appointment of officers and the Chancellor. I think it too soon to commence the work of closures at this time - but suspension does not equal complete abeyance. Ensure that they are prepared in all aspects until such time as the closures recommence."

He nods,"I shall see to it. While the closures are to be suspended, Mr Cranmer has asked me to confer with you upon the matter of ongoing reform within the Church further to those closures, Majesty. He has prepared some papers for your consideration." He pauses.

"What?"

"Majesty - I would advise caution. While you are the regent - we must present any reform of the church most carefully, for only the Queen has the right to do so. She leads the Church of England now - and, while you have been given authority to rule in her stead, it is possible that any reforms you institute shall be rejected, for you are not the head of the Church."

He has no intention of delaying the reforms that both of them wish to bring about - but the risks involved in doing so while the Head of the Church is a mere babe are great. Queen Anne swore to stand in her daughter's stead to protect her realm and lead her government - but she did not receive the authority to govern the Church.

She turns to look at him, "Do you no longer wish to release us from all of the toils of Popery?"

There is no mistaking the hostility in her tone.

"Far from it, Majesty; I seek it as you do - but if we are to continue our reforms, then we must be careful in how we present them. There has never been a woman at the head of a Church - not at any time. Her Majesty's authority shall be difficult enough to assert as it is - but for you to do so in her stead shall place that almost irretrievably at risk."

"Then how do you suggest we continue?"

Rather than launch into a speech, he looks at her, "Forgive me, Majesty - but what would be your thoughts? I am here to advise you, yes - but also to listen to you."

Anne is startled at his response. While she has always wanted to express her opinions on matters of governance, she is still unused to being permitted to do so. All attempts have been quelled by her husband, or her father; and to find that her foremost adviser has not is still something of a novelty.

"The Court of Augmentations was created to deal with the closure of the larger religious houses under the auspices of my late Lord's authority, Mr Cromwell." She muses, "The laws to permit it have also been approved, so our furtherance of the reforms shall be upon that basis. The reverence our subjects hold for his late Majesty is still present, and still strong; thus we shall present it to England as a respectful continuance of his legacy."

Cromwell nods, and smiles, pleased at her good sense. Yes - she has indeed proved to have the degree of political acumen that he has always suspected. She does not have the authority to demand continued reforms to the Church of England; but that is not what she is being seen to do. Instead, she is acting upon her late husband's decree, and thus none can claim otherwise - for all the preparatory work had been done in the previous reign.

"Our minds are meeting, Majesty." He admits, for his plan has been much the same, "I fear that any of the reforms that Mr Cranmer seeks to bring about shall be perforce postponed until her Majesty is of sufficient age to publicly agree to them. What we must do is continue to use sermons to persuade the people that the old Church is corrupt and has wandered far from God."

Anne looks most interested, "If we cannot demand, then we persuade." She continues, "Ensure that copies of the English Scriptures are presented to all Churches in England for all to read if they wish to. Those who opt to reject the Popish faith shall be free to do so without censure. What of the Heresy laws? Can they be removed?"

Cromwell thinks it over, "Yes, Majesty. The Heresy laws in England are not church laws, but instead civil laws - thus they can be repealed without difficulty. If it please you, I shall draft a bill to repeal them at the first opportunity, to be presented to Parliament for their consideration at the next session."

"We shall not be as bad as those vile torturers that are retained by our supposed Holy Mother Church, my Lord Treasurer. We shall persuade - not coerce. Furthermore, none shall find themselves to have broken the law if they choose to follow the reformed faith."

At least they can take that one action, even if they can do nothing else: as Anne is not Head of the Church in England, she cannot demand that all Englishmen abjure the Pope. Not even Cranmer can do that - for even he is subservient to Elizabeth. Cromwell nods, rises and bows, "I shall complete the appointment of officials to the Court of Augmentations, Majesty - and request that they undertake to organise how they shall work when the time comes. Equally, I shall set to work upon a bill to repeal the Heresy Laws in England."

She nods her head and watches as he departs. Should that wretched girl Mary ever decide to emerge from Hunsdon, she shall find that she is the only Catholic left in England.

* * *

The weather has broken, sheets of rain hurtling to the ground in the midst of wildly hurling winds, vivid lightning and roaring thunder. Looking out from her privy chamber, Mary runs the beads of her rosary through her fingers, and prays quietly. God seems to be looking upon her plans with favour - for the violent storm is the perfect weather to bring a stranger into the household. Who shall be watching at their posts when they are taking shelter from the deluge?

She thinks again of the risk that she is taking. Her response to Wiltshire had been an expression of relief that he had seen the reality of the true faith at last - and an exhortation that he come to her side to lead her government once she has regained her throne. Were it not for her trust in those who deliver her communications at such risk to themselves, she would not have dared to write that letter - but she has advised him to come to her now, on this late August night. Should he not do so, she shall assume that he has played her false, and he shall find himself facing the block once she is Queen.

Her council is not well populated at this time - for she has only Wiltshire's commitment, alongside that of the Seymours and Suffolk. He is, of course, already upon the Council, and thus shall be prepared to stand at her side - and she is determined that he shall be her Lord Chancellor, while Wiltshire shall be her Lord Treasurer, his reward for his renewed faith and loyalty.

That heretic Cranmer shall be excommunicated, of course - she shall seek that sanction from the Holy Father, while the altogether more suitable Stephen Gardiner shall replace him, should they not require the presence of a Papal Legate to stamp out that rising fire of heresy and restore England to her proper place in Christendom.

She has not allowed herself to think such thoughts for a long time. In the absence of any hope that she would find aid in her quest to claim her rights, it seemed foolish - but if Wiltshire comes to her tonight, then she shall know that the time has come, for God has brought him to her.

Jane looks up at a soft knock upon the door to the chamber. They have dismissed all the maids, on the grounds that she does not require the presence of maids for she is not due to retire yet. Thus there are no witnesses other than Jane and Susan as Edward Seymour comes into the chamber, and fails utterly to disguise his hostility towards the man that he has escorted into the house.

Mary draws herself up, and turns to face the door. She is dressed in black to reflect her mourning for her late parents, and wears jewels that she has been able to purchase with the generous allowance granted to her by the council. She has taken care to look stately and royal, and her face is artfully solemn as she watches the man who had once told her she would never be permitted to see, or write to, her mother again enters the room and bows deeply before her, "Your Majesty."

Wiltshire is dressed in his finest suit of clothes, though they are somewhat damp despite the protection of the thick cloak and bonnet that are now dripping in the outside porch, but his behaviour is absolutely deferential as it never was when she saw him last. His former haughtiness buried beneath a new layer of respect for the woman he has pledged to serve.

"Welcome to my house, my Lord Wiltshire." She has no wish to use the hated name 'Boleyn', "I am grateful for your offer of aid, and I give thanks to God that you have seen the light of his truth, and returned to the true faith."

She does not see Seymour's eyes roll skywards, nor his look of surprise when Wiltshire goes down upon his knees before her, "I kneel at your feet in supplication, great lady - for I have acted most grievously against you, and set an unfit woman at the head of your Government while her illegitimate child wears your crown. I cry you mercy - for I did not think of any course other than my own advancement, and thus I used my daughter against your sainted mother. I have seen now the error of my ways and seek to set right that which is wrong."

Standing behind them, Seymour stares at Mary's pleased, proud smile. How can she not see that he is telling her only what she wishes to hear in order to profit from her favour? Instead, she accepts his kiss upon her hand, and gives him her own rosary, "I accept your pledge of loyalty to my banner, my Lord, and I look to you to establish my army to take back that which is mine. When we are prepared, we shall step forth and I shall proclaim myself Queen at the Cathedral of St Alban's - for that is the nearest great Church to Hunsdon - and call upon all Englishmen to rise to my banner. I shall establish my Court there temporarily while we gather support, and then we shall march upon London."

Wiltshire bows his head, "I shall gift you a personal banner - I seek only to know that which you would have set upon it."

Mary does not need to think upon it, "Set upon it the three lions of England, and the three Fleurs de lys of France - and my own motto, for it is most appropriate for our purpose: _Veritas Temporis Filia_."

"Truth: the daughter of time." Wiltshire says, approvingly, "That is indeed most appropriate, for you are a daughter, and you have truth upon your side."

"And all shall hear it, and come to me." She agrees. "Now, away, my Lord. Begin your preparations, for we cannot delay. I shall advise my Lord of Suffolk to be ready - I shall await your arrival with your men to deliver me from my imprisonment within these walls, and we shall take England back from those who have stolen her from me."

Wiltshire rises to his feet, "With God's help, we shall prevail. Thus we shall restore the right rule of the Kingdom, and drive out the lutheran heresy once and for all."

"And all shall be well once more." Mary approves, smiling with joy at her coming change in fortunes, "God go with you my Lord. I shall await your coming."

"I shall return in two weeks." He says, then bows and backs from her to depart. Ignoring Seymour, who shall escort him out, he is careful to conceal his victorious smirk. She believes him to be hers - and thus he shall regain all that his daughter took from him. Once she is gone, he shall have the high office he has always craved - and, most importantly of all, he shall be the power behind the throne.

* * *

_My noble Lord Suffolk,_

_I write in haste and great joy to call you to my side, for it is my intention to claim my crown upon the feast day of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael before the high altar of the great Abbey Church of St Albans. There I shall raise a great army of the people to follow me to London - and I shall affirm my commitment to the continuation of the monastic life, and the return of England to the Catholic fold._

_I have been granted aid from a source so unexpected that it can only be thanks to God that I have received it. Thus I know that He has blessed my great enterprise, and I expect to celebrate mass in the great Abbey Church of Westminster before the leaves have fallen._

_Make haste to my side, my most loyal friend - for I shall need a great Councillor to advise me as I form my new Government. Thus I offer you the post of Lord High Chancellor, in the fervent hope that you shall accept it._

_Together we shall drive heresy out of England, and remove the illegitimate child of a King's mistress from her unwarranted throne - and I shall be crowned in her place by Christmastide._

_God is with us. I am assured of it. All I desire now is to have your kindly counsel as I face my destiny._

_Yours_

_Mary the Queen._

Rich stares at the letter, his eyes wide, "And you intend this to reach its destination?"

"Of course I do." Cromwell says, calmly, "I am keen to see what Suffolk does in response to it. He is more aware of the lay of the land than she - and knows that support from the Emperor shall only be forthcoming if she succeeds in her aim; not before. Furthermore, he also knows that there are now many in England who would oppose her in the face of her determination to destroy their faith. For those folk, it would require a choice between exile or the stake. I do not see tolerance in her intentions."

"She would be a fool if she did not offer such a conciliatory stance." Rich muses, "You are more concerned with reform than I - but even so, I would be obliged to flee abroad to keep my head upon my neck."

"As, indeed, would all but three men upon the council. I have no doubt that Wingfield and Tunstall shall race to her side as soon as they know of her move."

"And Norfolk?"

"He may do so - for he is of old Catholic stock; though I do not think it likely that he shall work easily with Wiltshire. But then, neither shall Suffolk." Cromwell pauses, "Interesting, is it not, that she has failed to mention her unexpected and God-given benefactor."

Rich snorts with amusement, "Jesu, yes. Suffolk shall have an apoplexy should he be apprised of it - and would fly to her side to warn her against him. If she has accepted him as her man, then he has indeed abased himself and proclaimed a return to the old faith."

"Alas, that is the easiest manner in which to win her favour. For she clings to her Roman faith so tightly that she seems blind to the truth that other men do not. It is easy to recite the _Confiteor_ or the _Credo_ and mean not one word of it - such is her belief, that she assumes that she is the rule, not the exception." Slowly, carefully, Cromwell re-sets the seal and returns it to the man who brought it to him, "Let him have the letter - and we shall see what he shall do. I am interested to discover whether he shall flee to Hunsdon to stop her, ride to St Albans to stand with her, or remain here and leave her with just Wiltshire at her side."

"He shall not abandon her to Wiltshire's machinations, Mr Cromwell; you know that as well as I. For all his faults - which are almost as legion as mine - he has never lost his loyalty to her mother." Rich looks suddenly nervous, "Do you think she shall manage it? To raise an army against us?"

Cromwell sits and chews at the inside of his cheek as he muses over the problem, "I cannot say how successful she shall be - but we have done what we can to persuade Englishmen that a grown woman as Regent is a better prospect than a girl who is barely of age and who can be controlled by power-hungry men with their own plans. Besides, there are too many men of the gentry who owe all that they have to the late King, and her Majesty the Regent - for they shall be the first to be turned out of their newly purchased homes when Mary demands the religious houses and their lands back. She has stated overtly in this letter that she shall do it."

Rich nods, sagely. One unexpected outcome of the closure of the religious houses - even the smaller ones - has been the emergence of a new class of gentry, who have never before owned land. England is, and has always been, governed on the principle of ownership of land - the more one has, the greater one's influence - and that land has been seized from multiple religious orders prior to their purchase of it. He doubts most strongly that, when Mary has them turned out of their properties, she shall give them their money back.

"The religious houses are a relic of times past." He says, cheerfully, "Perhaps, once, they cared for those around them in compliance with the commitment to hospitality - but the few remaining lay brothers have become lax upon the granges, while the choir monks hide behind their cloistered walls and pretend to themselves that the world is as it was when the first Edward sat upon his throne."

"Indeed so. That was the thought of her Majesty and I when we discussed the continued closures."

Rich stares at him, "You intend to continue? How? The Regent has no authority in religious matters!"

"She may not - but her late husband was responsible for the laws that allowed the closures - so she is merely carrying out his will." Cromwell's voice is artfully bland.

Rich raises his glass of claret, "I salute you, sir; and her Majesty, too. We shall win more gentry-folk yet." He sounds slightly tipsy.

"I shall accept your salute only if I return from the Queen without a flea in my ear for allowing Suffolk to receive his letter."

* * *

Anne stares at Cromwell, appalled, "You allowed him to receive this treacherous missive?" her tone is dangerous.

"Yes, Majesty."

"You _want_ him to flee to her side?"

"I want to see whether he shall do so.While it is not possible to see into his mind, should he depart with all speed, it may be that he shall flee to her side.Otherwise, it may be that he shall instead counsel her to delay, or halt her enterprise.It may, however, be that he shall find it hard to work with Lord Wiltshire - who I am given to understand is also at her side.”

"My _father_?" Anne stares at him, "She accepted his grovellings?"

"She thinks him to be sincere."

"Then she is an utter fool - and what little respect I might have had for her is gone." Anne snaps, "Even when my father and I still had cordial relations, I knew better than to trust him. His motives were always concerned solely with his personal advancement and enrichment."

"He still seeks that, Majesty; and he shall tell Mary whatever she wishes to hear in order to achieve it."

"Does she truly believe that she can win England by standing in an Abbey and claiming that she shall bring all the religious houses back and burn all heretics that do not flee?"

"I think it worth allowing the rumour to take flight in the shires that she shall open the way for inquisitors to test the faith of England's subjects." Cromwell advises, blandly, "She has not stated that she would do such a thing - but I should be most surprised if she did not. Once it becomes clear to her that there are many who would refuse to bow to Rome again, she shall turn to the Pope's interrogators to seek out recusants and reformers."

"Rivers of blood. Pyres as far as the eye can see." Anne adds, coldly, "Suffering, misery and torture. She shall tear the country apart."

Cromwell shakes his head, "She has no firm ground upon which to stand. If God has turned his back upon England for disbarring her true Queen, then how is it that we have not been overrun with plague, or the sweat? Why are the granaries full? How is it that the harvest has been so bountiful, and trade has improved immeasurably? With the prices of victuals low, the poorest of folk can afford pottage and bread; and those who cannot can turn to the poor houses in England's towns for aid. She shall be hard put to find discontented burghers who demand change."

Anne looks at him in surprise; clearly she has not appreciated that a good harvest could be a friend to her daughter's rule.

"Sickness and hunger would have been her most profitable allies, Majesty." Cromwell continues, "Why would a man look to overturn the rule of the Kingdom when he has a full belly and there is no sickness in the realm? Even to those who are more credulously religious, the fair state of the kingdom does not suggest that God has turned His face from us for not putting a crown upon Mary's head. Indeed, it suggests the opposite."

Her eyes narrow, "So you think she shall fail?"

"I shall not make any statement upon the outcome of her mission, Majesty. Not until I have more data with which to work. The strongest position can be overturned by a fatal assumption - did not Harold make that error when the forces of the Conqueror turned tail at Hastings? I shall prepare for the worst - and hope for the best."

She nods, "Go to, Mr Cromwell. Ensure that, should we need to, we shall have an army at our back that shall send Mary's rabble into the deepest rat holes that they can find."

There is a knock upon the door, and Michael opens it to reveal Rich outside, slightly blown from running, "Forgive me - I thought you should be advised. Mr Sadleir asked me to deliver this to you with all haste - but offered only the words 'He has departed'." He brandishes a small note.

Anne beckons him into the room, and he bows before standing alongside Cromwell, "Do we know whether he has fled to Hunsdon, or St Albans?"

Rich hands a note to Cromwell, who hastily scans it, "It seems that Suffolk departed from the water-gate at Suffolk House, crossed to the wharf at the River Walbrook and exited the City via Aldgate."

"Then it is St Albans." Rich says, "Were he to ride to Hunsdon, the Moorgate would have set him upon the Harlow road."

The three exchange nervous glances. It seems, then, that Suffolk has indeed gone to Mary's side with the intention of supporting her claim. There is, of course, the possibility that he has attempted a deception - and intends to divert to Hunsdon; but even if he does, the speed of his action does not suggest that he is keen to dissuade her.

"I shall commence issuing papers of commission, Majesty." Cromwell says, hastily, "Mr Rich, you are in charge of ordnance and supply.I shall put my watchers to await his arrival and to inform me as soon as they hear of his whereabouts.”

"I shall see to it at once." Rich agrees. They turn back to Anne, awaiting her dismissal. As soon as she nods, they hasten out.

Rising from her chair, Anne crosses to the window of her chamber and looks outside to see that Elizabeth is playing in the rose garden with Jane Radcliffe, while Mistress Ashley watches over them.

"So you mean to move." She says, quietly to herself, "If that is so, then I swear - I _swear_ \- that you shall not have my child's crown. I shall crush any army that you send against me, and I shall bring you to your knees before me. Then, if I am so minded, you shall find yourself wedded to the most Protestant man I can find, as far away from this Kingdom as I can send you. As God is my witness, I shall defeat you - for _her_."

Elizabeth is laughing as she chases a butterfly - all unaware of the danger that is rising to encroach her. Her eyes glittering with anger, Anne turns from the window and seats herself in her chair again. Mary may covet the throne - but all that she shall find in her quest is war.

A war that she, Anne, intends to win.


	24. The St Alban's Proclamation

Cromwell is busily reading through a long report as Rich returns to his own work from the midday meal. Not normally a particularly aware or generous individual, he has noticed that his colleague - and slowly emerging friend - was not in the hall, and has thus returned with a leg of capon, a chunk of bread, and an apple: all wrapped up in a napkin. There is already claret available, so he has not bothered with that.

Depositing the package upon Cromwell's desk, he is immediately intrigued, "News of our Queen's rival?" He is not fool enough to speak overly loudly.

Cromwell nods, "Our various spies have reported much. Wiltshire has visited the Lady, and she has swallowed his false conversion absolutely. As we thought, her own conviction is such that she assumes all men share it - and it is a simple matter to deceive her if one knows the right words to use. He is - of course - a most wily individual, and knows well what must be said in order to win favour in such circumstances." He pauses, opens the napkin, "Ah - thank you. I had not noticed the passage of time." Clearly pleased, he hands the paper to Rich and transfers his attention to the victuals.

Rich sits down nearby, "So she has Wiltshire - and Suffolk. Do we know if she has approached any other nobles?"

"She would be a fool to try it," Cromwell advises, prior to biting into the leg.

Rich nods, "Indeed so. It was my concern that she would not be suitably subtle."

Cromwell swallows his mouthful, "If she is to win over the newly landed gentry, then she shall be forced to leave the Abbey lands they have purchased in their hands. Given her commitment to rob them of it and hand it back to the monks, that shall be troublesome - unless she makes a promise with one hand, and withdraws it with the other."

"I cannot see her doing such a thing. Not if her previous dealings are evidence of her behaviour. To her, a promise is absolute and must not be broken on pain of eternal damnation. Such is the way with all who are as pious as she."

"In her case, however, that piety is absolutely true." Cromwell reminds him, "She has clung to it tightly as her one consolation in a great reversal of her fortunes, and thus there is no pretence. To claim otherwise would be to offer her a great disservice. Enemy though she is to our Queen, she is still the child of the King, and thus worthy of respect."

Leaving his colleague to eat his meal, Rich returns his attention to the document. As they have surmised, the prospect of losing their newly acquired lands shall drive them to look to the Regent for aid should Mary declare her intent to take the throne. While there is no firm commitment, the rumours are already abroad in the shires, and those who shall lose if Mary wins are already concerned that they shall be evicted from their homes and given nothing to compensate them for the loss. Equally, higher ranked nobles are profiting well from peace in the realm, and there are few who seem interested in inspiring upheaval - particularly if to do so invites foreign interference. That innate suspicion of foreigners is, perhaps, their greatest ally.

The only noblemen that Mary might consider likely to flock to her are those who are as determined for the Catholic faith as she. Even so, they may well balance the possible benefits of gaining from her success with the dangers of falling with her loss. They are thoroughly aware of the political lay of the land - and the danger of losing all that they have might well stay their hands.

"Mr Cranmer has instructed his bishops to ensure that the churches preach upon the scripture from chapter sixteen of the first book of Kings." Cromwell advises, "They shall liken Mary to Zimri, who killed all of the royal family and stole the throne for himself - but who ruled a mere seven days, and died for his sins against the Lord, in causing Israel to worship idols."

"And he is sure that they shall not liken the Regent to Zimri instead?"

"Only those priests who are not tainted by Popery shall be requested to preach. Most parishes have already gained some benefit from Royal endowment, and so her Majesty the Regent continues to gain favour as 'mother of the Realm'. Certainly, I have not heard talk of Jezebel in the parishes at this time. Once, perhaps, but no longer. Besides, we have been blessed with an excellent harvest, and there was no outbreak of the sweat during the summer. Even the plague seems to have been in abeyance for much of the season - for there were but a few small clusters of sickness in some towns, but none took hold. It shall be hard to claim that God has turned his face from England when grain prices are low, and fewer families than in previous years have been obliged to bury loved ones who are dead from plague."

"And Mary believes that she shall win over the people of England in such times?"

Cromwell sighs, "I fear so. She is young, and has never been granted the opportunity to accumulate political experience. Furthermore, she has been kept from capable advisers - and, for all his skill, Wiltshire's ulterior motives are likely to cause him to advise her poorly, for he has always been keen to grasp all that he can, as quickly as he can - and lacks the patience essential to play the longer game."

"Suffolk shall dissuade her, though." Rich muses, "He has sat at the Council table, and knows - as Wiltshire does not - that she shall be a fool if she thinks she can snatch England purely because she is who she is."

"He is too late for that." Cromwell shakes his head, "Far too late. The plans she outlined in her letter were plans that were clearly made, not suggestions of what she might do. She is headstrong, and proud - gifts from both of her parents - and once set upon her course of action shall be all but impossible to divert from it."

"So she shall do it? Declare herself Queen at St Albans?"

"Of course she shall. Then we shall prove that she is not."

* * *

From a distance, Hunsdon House looks no different from any other country residence: a wide parkland, a long lane down which one must ride to approach, and a fine house surrounded by carefully tended formal gardens. To most who approach the place, the ride is a simple affair along that lane, watched by those who reside within, as there is no means to conceal oneself. To others, however, it is a more careful business, and Suffolk is obliged to rely upon the assistance of Seymour to deliver him safely to Mary's presence without the Regent's spies being aware of it, particularly as he has taken care to depart from the City via the Aldgate to give the impression that he was travelling north-east. Neither of them appreciate that the Regent is, in fact, entirely aware of it, and has been for more than a day.

September is halfway towards its end, the feast of the Archangels a mere two weeks off - and in that time they must gather what men they can, and depart to St Albans without being challenged. Worse, with no sign that God is displeased with England for their choice of monarch, Mary must rely upon her name and lineage alone to inspire people to follow her to London and sweep away a usurper.

In all honesty, Suffolk is not at all convinced that they shall succeed in such an endeavour.

Thus he must attempt as best he can to act as a voice of reason, persuading a determined young woman that her ignorance of the state of England may well prove disastrous, as the people have no reason to turn against the Queen and her Regent other than sentiment. With their bellies and their purses equally full, it is more likely that they shall ignore her call - or watch, then walk away. If she is lucky, then she shall accumulate a rabble of vagabonds and displaced cloister-folk. And what use are they against a royal army? With so many newly landed men owing their fortune to the Regent, if they cannot provide men at arms, they shall provide the funds to pay for them.

It is a cruel situation in which Mary is now trapped - for if she does nothing, then she shall be forgotten as Elizabeth grows and comes into her inheritance. If she acts, then she is almost certain to fail.Regardless of whether or not men sympathise with her, they shall not fight against a well organised government and a Queen whose inheritance of the crown has been set out in both the late King's will and his laws. A bad harvest, or a widespread outbreak of some contagion or other might well have tipped the balance in her favour - but without great hardship in England, she has no foundation upon which to build herself as a worthy alternative. Yes - she is the daughter of the late king, but so is Elizabeth.

Mary's letter did not apprise him as to the identity of this unexpected aid - and thus he wonders who has emerged from the shadows to give her such hope of success. As they wait in the darkness, Seymour turns to him, "Her Majesty has decided to make her escape this night. It seems that accommodation has been secured some three miles from here in a quiet house that is owned by my Lord of Sussex, but is not occupied. They shall not think to look for her in the house of a loyal Lord."

"We are to depart tonight?" Suffolk stares, shocked, "But I have not had the opportunity to offer my counsel - I do not think it wise to act in so precipitous a manner as this - there is much that her Majesty does not appreciate about the political lay of the land in England."

Seymour seems disinterested in such advice, though it is too dark to see his face, "It is her Majesty's wish and command that we make our escape this night. Already, Jane has overseen the removal of the finer of her Majesty's gowns to be transported in secret to the new house. None of the Regent's spies have seen what we have done - only the chambermaids that have been with Mary prior to her removal from Court have aided us."

Suffolk sighs inwardly, but says nothing. Already he can hear the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves as a number of animals have been carefully led from the stables, their iron shoes covered with thick cloth to reduce the clatter upon the stone cobbles of the mews.

"We are to depart first, my Lord." Seymour advises, "To prepare the way for her Majesty's arrival. She shall meet with us there."

It is clear that no argument shall be heard against this escapade - none whatsoever. Mary has set her heart upon claiming her crown in St Albans, and not even the harsh truth that England has no worthwhile reason to hear her call shall stop her. Wondering what on earth he has allowed himself to walk into, Suffolk mounts up to depart.

* * *

Anne reads the report that Cromwell has provided to her with a look of horror, "She intends to flee from Hunsdon!"

Cromwell nods, "I suspect that, if she has not done so, it shall not be long before she does. Given her intention to issue her proclamation upon the old feast of the Archangels, if she does not leave imminently, then she shall not achieve her intention."

"And you intend to allow this?"

"Yes, Majesty. As long as she believes herself free to do as she wishes, she shall remain under our scrutiny, and we shall be prepared to counter her. At present, she appears intent upon making good her threat to confiscate properties from the nobility, for she has already done so with your manor at Cole Green, my Lord Sussex - I am given to understand that she intends to move there."

Sussex stares at Cromwell, outraged, "What? That is not a former monastic property! She has no right to take it!"

"I suspect that her primary intention is to conceal herself in a property that is owned by a man loyal to the Regent." Rich muses, also having seen the report beforehand, "Thus it is less likely to be searched."

"In that case, I think it an appropriate time to inspect it, and turf out any vagrants that have taken up residence within." Sussex growls, crossly, then turns to Anne, "Majesty, I ask that you grant me command of the forces that shall counter any rabble that that ungrateful creature attempts to raise against you. My honour has been impugned, and I wish to demonstrate absolutely that I am truly loyal to her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, and to you as Regent."

He is unaware that, alongside him, Cromwell nods very slightly. Returning Sussex's gaze, Anne catches that slight movement in her peripheral vision. As she has already decided to ask the Chancellor to do so, it is a simple matter to agree, "Thank you, my Lord. I am most grateful for your offer, and I charge you with the task of securing a suitably sized and armed militia to counter any threat that this ungracious usurper might see fit to raise against us."

Her tone is remarkably menacing. Rising, Sussex bows, steps back, and departs.

"It shall take him a month to do it." Cromwell says, quietly, "As we are likely to have but a scant two weeks until Mary proclaims herself, it shall aid us a great deal if her words attract only a few - but if they do not, then we shall at least be prepared to stand against her."

Anne sits back in her chair, her expression pensive, "Do you think she can do it? Raise England against Elizabeth?"

"It shall be most difficult for her to do so - but it is likely that there shall be traitors and malcontents who shall seek to work mischief, and use her as a means to an end. The wounds inflicted upon England by the wars of the Plantagenets have healed over, yes - but that healing is fragile at best, and there are still tales told of rivers that ran with blood as the youth of England died over which cousin should wear a crown over all of the others. Mary has nothing to offer England but sentimental memories of a dead mother, and promises made to the wearers of habits and cassocks. The people of your realm are unlikely to see any reason to throw in their lots with hers. Unless she can demonstrate that she intends to do more than confiscate land from the Gentry and send Papal Legates into the shires to bind innocents to stakes, she shall find that England has no interest in her."

"And what if you are wrong?"

"If I am wrong, then we all die." His voice is calm as he speaks, "But I think that we shall live."

"God have mercy - I should have imprisoned her long ago."

Cromwell shakes his head, "We cannot easily justify such an act, Majesty. While we know that she plots, up to this point she has done nothing against her Majesty. She is the daughter of the late King, and we must take great care to avoid stirring memories of two other royal children who found themselves imprisoned, then never seen again. Should she take overt steps against the Queen, that shall change. But at this time, we risk being compared with the Crookback - did he not send his own nephews to the Tower upon the pretext of complying with Royal tradition, only to bury them there? Even now, his name is blackened for the act."

"I know, Mr Cromwell. I know..." Anne sighs, "While most Englishmen accept that I exist, and ignore my presence in favour of Elizabeth and a united Government, such a state has been hard won, and is easily lost. I cannot - _must_ not - act in such fashion that I cause disorder that my daughter must perforce overcome."

There is little else to discuss, and Anne dismisses the few councillors she admitted to the meeting. Wingfield and Tunstall are still at Court, though it is likely that they shall be on their way soon - it would be impossible to win a place upon that girl's council if they were not at her proclamation. Audley, on the other hand, seems to blow hot and cold - uncertain whether to join the very small pilgrimage to St Albans, or remain with the majority in London. Suddenly very tired, Anne removes from the Presence Chamber to her Privy Chamber, and sinks down with relief upon a long couch as Nan Berkley comes in with comfits and sweet wine, "Majesty, Mr Smeaton is without and seeks an audience."

Instantly, Anne is tense. What does _he_ want? He is naught but a musician - his status as a groom of the Privy Chamber died with Henry, "I am very tired, Nan - please advise him that I am engaged with matters of State and thus cannot see him. If Lady Rochford is present, send her through to attend me."

"She is, Majesty. I shall do as you ask."

The comfits are of little interest to her - but she is grateful for the wine, and even more so when Lady Rochford enters the chamber, "Has he gone?"

She nods, "Yes, Majesty - though he was most disappointed. He claims that he has obtained some new French _ballades_ for you; but his garments were most astonishingly garish, and he was surrounded by a great wafting cloud of scent that suggested it had been poured upon him from a pitcher."

"God's wounds - do you think he intended to pay court to me?"

Jane shakes her head, "Even he is not such a fool as that; though I fear it was certainly his intention to capture your attention through his manner of dress."

"If he was as badly dressed as you claim, then he would not have failed in _that_ intent." For the first time this morning, Anne smiles, but not for long, "I think we shall be obliged to dispense with his services if this continues. Rumours aside, the embarrassment that shall ensue should he attempt to seek my favour - thereby obliging me to turn him down - would be most grievous. I have other matters to concern me at this time, and I have no wish to be distracted."

"We shall be most ostentatious in our chaperoning of your Majesty." Jane smiles, cheerfully, "We shall continue as always, but we shall dress more brightly, and thus none can claim that they did not see us."

"Thank you, Jane. Could you call Lady Bryan, please? I should like to ask her how Elizabeth's latin is coming along."

"Yes Majesty."

* * *

Suffolk is most uncomfortable. While the house is of excellent aspect, well furnished and in good repair, it is the property of another man, and they are essentially vagrants taking up residence within it. The paintings upon the walls are of the Radcliffe family, and the bundled dust-sheets that have been abandoned in various corners do little to ease his sense of discomfiture.

Seymour, on the other hand, seems utterly unconcerned. His adherence to the Catholic faith is lighter than some - and his primary interest is to gain political power in the light of Mary's reign. He shall certainly get it; for he has proved loyal and cunning in equal measure; though he shall likely be required to accumulate at least a barony before he can claim priority in the Government.

There are few servants in the house - kept there only as caretakers in the absence of residents. Obliged to remove dust sheets and open shutters, they are in now hiding in the servants' hall, fearful that they shall be harmed by those who have taken the house, or punished by the man who owns it for not protecting it. Not the most auspicious of starts to a reign.

Dawn broke nearly two hours ago, and still there is no sign of the Queen. The horses had been made ready - so it should have been a simple matter to follow as quickly as Seymour and he had done. Was her escape seen? Has she been apprehended already? If so, then her reign is over before it has even begun - the Regent requires only the lightest of pretexts to act against her.

Then, at last, he can hear the crunch of hooves upon gravel, and looks out of a window to see that she has arrived, surrounded by her ladies, and a single guardsman who must've declared for her. In the distance, someone else is approaching - but at present Suffolk is relieved that her Majesty has escaped Hunsdon safely, and is quickly at the door to welcome her inside while Seymour hastens below stairs to chivvy the servants into providing water for her to wash her hands and face - and some wine for her to drink.

"Forgive our tardiness, my Lord of Suffolk," she says, as he bows deeply, and she holds out her hand for him to kiss, "One of the horses threw a shoe, and thus we were obliged to travel more slowly."

"I am pleased that you are well, Majesty, and grateful that God has delivered you safely from your imprisonment."

She smiles, "Indeed, my Lord - he has looked upon us with favour. In spite of a lame horse, we are here, and can rest briefly until we move on to St Albans." He stands aside and allows her to enter, "I shall rest for an hour, and then we shall have our first Council meeting."

"Yes, Majesty." In spite of his fears, he cannot help but smile at her - for she carries herself as a true Queen should, even in a mud-spattered riding habit. Bowing low, he watches her depart, and then rises, wondering where this supposed unexpected aid has got to.

And finds himself face to face with the Earl of Wiltshire.

* * *

There is an awkward silence as the two men stare at one another for an uncomfortably long period of time. Suffolk has no idea how to deal with a man who had, until recently, been implacably opposed to the accession of Queen Mary to her rightful throne. Now, however, he is standing at her door, and has taken great care to sport a crucifix that hangs from about his neck. While the cross itself is not particularly ornate, the manner in which he wears it more than makes up for that lack of ostentation. To the Queen, it is doubtless a symbol of his contrition and newly re-acquired faith in the true Church of God. To Suffolk, on the other hand, it is a symbol only that he has done what he needs to do in order to win her favour. Wiltshire is a man who shall say, or do, whatever is required to gain that which he seeks to obtain - and thus he gives the impression of a contrite sinner who has returned to the fold, in hopes that his own daughter shall be destroyed, while he profits. Perhaps he aims to obtain a Dukedom? Or accumulate additional properties for himself? Perhaps both…

Wiltshire eyes Suffolk uncertainly, but takes care to maintain an inscrutable expression. This is a man who has maintained his loyalty to the girl from the beginning - and thus she sees him as her first and foremost councillor. Much as he wishes to be at the forefront of Government, he has no choice but to play second fiddle to a man who is almost as well known for his philandering as he is for his friendship with the late King, "Your Grace." He bows - a very shallow inclination of his head and shoulders - and waits for Suffolk to enter ahead of him.

Once he has found a means to undermine the Duke, of course, things shall be different - but first they must get the crown on the brat's head, and thus he shall bow and scrape as he needs to.

As agreed, Mary emerges from her chambers after an hour. She has exchanged her spattered habit for a fine gown of black damask, upon which have been embroidered a multitude of seed pearls and crystals that glisten in the sunlight that is filtering in through the windows, "At this time, my Lords," she advises, as Suffolk, Wiltshire and Seymour bow before her, "I wear mourning both for my late mother, and my late father. I shall continue to do so until such time as I am enclosed in the garments of a Queen at my coronation. I was not permitted to do so when in my gilded prison - but I am now free, and I shall reclaim England in the name of my House: that of Tudor. The illegitimate line shall be wiped out, and my own sons shall continue the legacy of my parents before it was disrupted and diverted from its true path."

"We shall stand with you, your Majesty." Suffolk says, with quiet sincerity, "As the true daughter of our late King, and your most sainted mother, Queen Katherine, the Crown is yours by right. I swear to you that the advice I give to you shall be honest, frank and truthful."

"Indeed it shall, my Lord of Suffolk." Mary smiles at him, a radiant smile of true joy, "And thus I appoint you my Lord Chancellor, and you, my Lord of Wiltshire shall be the Lord President of my Council. Mr Seymour, as soon as it is in my power to do so, I shall raise you to the Peerage, to complement your rank of Lord Privy Seal - your loyalty to me in my captivity shall be rewarded by the responsibility of handling my personal seal, when such time comes as it can be struck.

"My first order of business shall be to compose my Proclamation, which I shall then declare to my subjects and Council in the Abbey Church of St Albans. Mr Seymour, let it be known that the Queen of England shall travel there forthwith, and all who come to her shall be pardoned of any sins against the Queen's Majesty, and God's holy Church."

Seymour bows, "I shall see to it, Majesty. It shall emerge as a rumour, and thus spread amongst the people, who shall come to you in St Albans."

She smiles again as he withdraws.

"Majesty," Suffolk looks most uncomfortable, "Forgive me, but I cannot stay silent. The political situation is not as far in our favour as I would wish it to be - and we must be most careful if we are to prevail."

The smile falters, "In what way, my Lord? I am the true Queen of England - and thus it is my right to claim it. My Subjects shall see that."

His expression gentle, Suffolk indicates that she take a seat, "Majesty, your faith is true, and strong - and for that you are to be commended by all of Christendom. That you are the legitimate Queen of England is not in dispute; but you must know - the usurper Elizabeth has the support of Parliament, and a large proportion of the higher nobility. They can muster large forces to dispatch against us - and thus we must be careful."

"I shall have the love of my Subjects, my Lord." Mary reminds him, "They shall remember me, and my true rights - and thus shall stand with me. What can mercenaries do against that?" She pauses, seeing the expression upon his face, "What, my Lord?"

"The number of people who shall look to you to rescue them from the misrule of the Regent and her Government may not be as great as you hope." He admits, "The harvest this year has been most bountiful, the weather benign. Peace in the realm has led to greater trade, while the closure of the smaller religious houses has given wealthier gentry-men the opportunity to obtain land, and thus become more politically powerful. Discontent is in short supply - and there is little evidence to the realm that God is displeased with the woman who wears the Crown."

"That, I cannot countenance, my Lord of Suffolk." Mary's eyes narrow as her temper is sparked, "I am the Queen, and my Subjects shall welcome me, for I am the true daughter of the late King."

"My Lord of Suffolk speaks wisely, Majesty." Wiltshire recognises the danger even if Mary does not, "There is no disputing that the Kingdom has prospered in this first year of the usurper's reign - and it is essential that we take that into account. We cannot claim that your reign shall overcome hardship and misery when there is little to none - but instead we should look to the dispossessed, for their hardship has not been touched by a good harvest, or by the support of Parliament. Where once they might have looked to the religious houses for succour, now they have naught but the poor laws, which are not applied with the loving will of God. Consequently, as our Lord looked to the truly dispossessed when he walked among us, so should you."

Intrigued, Mary thinks over the suggestion, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." She says, quietly, "Yes - as our good Lord gave hope to those with nothing, so shall I. Thus shall my reign begin - bringing succour to the poorest and meanest of my subjects."

Suffolk eyes Wiltshire, bemused. Of all the things he expected, an agreement with his consensus was not at the forefront. The man is hardly known for his patience, after all - but his suggestion is sound. If those who have gained from the current reign shall not heed the Queen's call, then those who have lost shall certainly listen.

* * *

"She has gathered a council of sorts, Majesty." Cromwell advises, as he peruses the chessboard, "Suffolk, Wiltshire and Seymour. Of those, only Suffolk truly appreciates the political situation, but I have no doubt that Mary shall disregard his warnings. While the majority of the great Lords of England have no wish to overturn the stable government of the realm, those who might think otherwise are too far away to be of any aid - for they are in the North and shall hear nothing of her proclamation until after it has failed. Similarly, the Gentry shall see only the prospect of the loss of their lands, while those who have less even than that have the infirmaries and almshouses to which they can turn. Only the very poorest of men are likely to see benefit in following her - and those who were once within the cloisters. Most who were once in habits have fled to other houses, and thus are not amongst the dispossessed." He has taken great care to ensure that the young woman he has installed in Mary's household has a means of alerting him of the girl's activities as quickly as possible, housing a small group of riders in the city to deliver messages by fast horse that she can easily approach upon the pretext of securing items for her mistress.

"Have your commissioners been busy in St Albans?" she asks, quietly, watching as he moves his bishop, "If the people who might most closely listen to that girl have no reason to hear her words, then even they shall not rise to her call."

"Indeed."

"It is my hope that they shall not, Mr Cromwell." She says, firmly, "Not merely because I wish her to fail, but because I have no wish for blood to be spilled. The ordinary folk of this realm do not deserve to be slaughtered while those of higher estate squabble about whose head has a crown set upon it. We both know that it is not the wealthy and privileged who shall pay the price of this."

"I fear that, no matter what we do, that shall happen, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "The Lady Mary is intent upon the Crown, for she thinks it to be hers; and thus we have no choice but to confront her. She is acting without the support of the Princes of Europe, and without the support of much of the Nobility - but still she acts."

"And so I must fight her." Anne sighs, "Somehow, my enmity seems a very little thing in the face of such a threat."

Cromwell regards her as she, in her turn, peruses the pieces on the board. That she seems to have finally appreciated the pointlessness of her hatred for a misbegotten child of a former rival is pleasing - but it has been quelled by the reality of an impending battle - and they must hope that the matter is settled before the weapons are deployed.

* * *

The ride into the town of St Albans has been a small procession, and Suffolk watches the few people who have abandoned their work in the fields with concern. While the harvest has been brought in, there is still work to be done to prepare those fields for the next growing season, and people are busy with those essential chores. As he feared, even those who till the soil have earned well from the their labour, and see God's blessings in their fortune. The lack of a large retinue has also not aided them - for the Queen looks to most to be merely a grand Lady traversing between her homes.

She has no canopy of Estate, of course; nor a guard in royal red. Thus her procession lacks the grandeur of the great Progress of Elizabeth, which came this way not a month ago. Then, of course, the presence of guards, Ladies, Lords, fluttering pennants and banners called the folk from their fields like a siren's song. Now, however, they see nothing of interest, and continue with their toil.

Mary seems not to be concerned at the disinterest; his warning that only the most utterly dispossessed would see her as a scion of hope has prepared her for it. Even now, she is convinced that her reign shall start with the love of the poorest of her subjects, and thus she shall ride into St Albans like Christ into Jerusalem - accompanied only by ordinary folk, while those of grand estate look away and smirk.

It is his best hope that she shall be right.

Matters seem not to improve as they enter St Albans. They are accompanied, yes - but by children who cheer and laugh delightedly at the display of horses and finely dressed riders; while not even the few beggars they pass seem interested. Nonetheless, Mary smiles at those she passes, and they process to the gates of the great Abbey.

Knowing that it shall look most poor if the Queen is obliged to wait, Seymour has ridden ahead to the gatehouse and pulls at the bell-chain to summon someone to admit them.

"Who is without?" It is, of course, a lay brother - none of the cloistered monks would attend the door to the outside world.

"Her Majesty, Queen Mary of England, France and Ireland approaches, and shall Proclaim her rule within the bounds of your great Church. Summon the Abbot to admit her."

The man stares at him in shock, "Queen Mary?"

"Yes. The true Queen of England, who shall protect your House from the ravages of Cromwell's commissioners, comes from confinement to claim her Crown. Thus I ask that the Abbot is summoned to welcome her to God's holy Church."

The promise of protection from closure seems to win the argument, and the brother turns to one of his fellows, "Hurry - send for the Abbot, the Queen of England has arrived. I shall admit them to the precincts."

"But it is Lectio Divina - what if he does not come?"

"He shall come - the Commissioners were here not a week ago, and she shall stem their tide of heresy against us. Go!"

Seymour turns his horse and watches as the great Abbey gates are opened, just in time to admit the entourage, which has - at last - gathered something of a crowd. The news is spreading that it is Mary - though the cheers seem so far to be for the 'Lady Mary' and 'Queen Katherine's Bairn'. Not that it matters: she has not yet proclaimed herself, so they shall be present when she does - and shall soon cheer her as their Queen.

The Abbot, Robert Catton - a rather dithery man of little apparent talent - is hastening towards them from a passageway between the abbey church and the Lay Brothers' quarters as Mary pulls her horse up, and one of the Lay brothers assists her as she dismounts.

"My Lady…er…your Majesty?" he looks most confused; to his mind, there is already a queen in England, and - no matter how deeply she wishes to have the Crown, the one who wears it has been granted that right by the King's will and the law, "Welcome to the Abbey - how can we be of service to you?"

He is terrified - and understandably so. By welcoming her to his Abbey, he is committing treason - but not if what follows leads to the banishment of the Queen already in London.

"I am come as your Queen to make myself known to my Subjects, your Grace." She says, with infinite courtesy, "As the true Queen of England, I shall reverse all the acts against God's holy church, overturn this heretical reformation and restore my realm to the Holy Father."

"Then enter, great Queen, and be most welcome." The Abbot bows at once, "History shall be made here, as England returns to God, and to her true place in the Church. Heresy is already in our streets, and we pray daily for its eradication. Thus God has sent you to us."

Mary nods, and smiles. Behind her, Wiltshire conceals the snort of disdain - is that all that matters to them? It seems to him that they care for nothing else but that: perhaps they believe that, if they do so, all else shall follow as a matter of course. Not that it matters to him, of course; as long as he gets a Dukedom out of it, and regains control of the Queen's personal seal as he once held Henry's, he shall kiss the rosary, or the feet of a Cardinal, and say as many _Hail Marys_ as anyone demands.

At the Abbot's invitation, Mary follows him through the great West Door into the Abbey Church. While she had made a commitment to pronounce her proclamation in front of the High Altar, she is unlikely to be admitted beyond the great stone pulpitum that separates the cloistered brothers from those who deign to mingle with the ordinary folk of the town. Certainly the look of consternation upon the face of the Abbot as she makes it clear that she intends to pass through the small gateway that pierces that enormous stone edifice suggests that it is a step too far in his mind. She is neither a man, nor vowed to follow the rule of St Benedict.

As she looks about her, Mary can see that the church is in something of a state of disrepair. She knows little of the Abbey's affairs, but Wiltshire has told her that the great site is in debt, and its income has fallen drastically. Thus she is keen to ensure that the works that have so far been undertaken to suppress such houses shall be stopped. It does not do that those who have opted to live a contemplative life so close to God should do so in a church that is falling into decay.

"Your Grace," she turns to Catton as he shuffles nervously beside the gates of the pulpitum, "I note that England has not been good to your Abbey. In exchange for granting me a place in which I can make my proclamation, I shall secure an annual endowment for this great House, and I ask that a chantry chapel be established, and masses said daily for the repose of the souls of my late parents for the duration of my reign.”

He bows, "Majesty, I am overcome - we shall set aside the nearer chapel in the South Transept, and rebuild it for that purpose." Then he turns, "Majesty - please step forth."

Smiling, she follows him through into the Monks' Choir, and on to the Presbytery, followed by her retinue, and a number of those who have followed - but not those who are too meanly dressed; they shall stay in the lay brothers' Choir. In her joy at being admitted to the place she had aimed to reach, Mary does not notice that the very people she sees as the subjects she shall claim first have not been permitted to enter her presence.

Drawing herself up, she steps up to the dais upon which the Altar has been set, and turns to face those who have entered. It is not, perhaps, the sea of faces she had hoped for, but there are enough to form a reasonable crowd, and thus she begins to speak, "Mary, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith: to all our most loving, faithful, and obedient subjects, greeting.

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God to call unto his mercy the most excellent Prince, King Henry VIII, our late father of most worthy memory, whereby the crown imperial of the realms of England and Ireland, with the title of France and all other things appertaining unto the same, do most rightfully and lawfully belong unto us:

"We do signify unto you that according to our said right and title we do take upon us and be in the just and lawful possession of the same; not doubting but that all our true and faithful subjects will so accept us, take us, and obey us as their natural and liege sovereign lady and Queen, according to the duties of their allegiance.

"As we stand before the shrine of England's first, most blessed martyr, St Alban, we commit unto you that we shall end the grievous injustices wrought upon our realm. Therefore, we shall restore England to the Holy Mother Church, and there shall be no Head of the Church in England. Furthermore, we shall return those lands stolen from the Church to those from whom they were taken; and act to cleanse England of heresy through the welcome of all sinners back to the true faith, assuring all our good and faithful Catholic subjects that in doing they shall find us their benign and gracious sovereign lady, as others our most noble progenitors have heretofore been."

Catton's expression is rapturous, and there is no need for Seymour to prompt an answer to her statement, for he does so quite spontaneously, "God save the Queen Mary!"

To the relief of her Lords, the few that have been able to make their way through to the Presbytery join in the throng. It is not much - but it is, at least, a start.


	25. Pilgrims

The expressions of the council are grim, and the mood equally poor. As always, Cromwell's expression is a study in blandness - but nonetheless, he is fully aware of matters at St Albans, courtesy of the one spy that is still present in the retinue. He had never thought that his decision to insert that maid amongst Mary's women would pay such dividends - but had he not done so, then he would truly be blind. And he does not like to be blind.

"I have received pledges of aid and men-at-arms from my Lords of Bedford, Derby, Dorset, Essex, Huntingdon, Oxford, Southampton and Shrewsbury." Sussex advises, "Added to my own men, and those pledged by lesser nobles and gentrymen, we shall be able to place an army of ten thousand in the field. Additional to that, there shall be sufficient ordnance and artillery to repel a force twice that size. The Northern nobility have, not surprisingly, kept their own counsel."

"And who have not declared for Elizabeth?" Anne asks, firmly.

"Norfolk - though that is no surprise, for he has not allied with any since his banishment from court - Lincoln, Northumberland and Cumberland, Majesty." Rich supplies, "They have not declared for Mary, either, so at this time their involvement remains a moot point."

"Mr Cromwell?" Anne turns to the man who is most likely to have information relevant to Mary's actual plans.

"The Lady is currently accommodated in the finest guest lodgings at the Abbey of St Albans, where her council of pretenders claim that the countryside is moving in her favour. It has not, however, gone unnoticed that only the poorest of subjects look upon her as their salvation, and they were not permitted into her presence when she proclaimed herself. I suspect that, had she been aware of it, she might have objected to their rejection - but she did not see it, and that failure was noted by the lesser folk who were present.Already it is noised amongst those of the poorest stock that she looks only to those of higher state: those who presently see no benefit in supporting her attempt to overthrow the Government that has brought them prosperity. If she is not warned of it, then she shall find that she has lost what little momentum she had secured."

Anne looks satisfied, "She is not likely to be - for she has no men amongst her who have come from the very poorest stock, and thus are less likely to notice such people. I am more fortunate in that regard."

He inclines his head respectfully, "I wish it could be so simple as that, Majesty - but we must be prepared that she departs from St Albans with an army at her back - even if it be no more than a rabble of peasants and townsfolk with whatever weapon they can grasp. Certainly Wiltshire and Suffolk shall provide men-at-arms, and thus those who follow shall be emboldened by their presence. If this is presented to them as a religious enterprise, then they might well be harder to disperse."

"Given the tenor of her proclamation," Rochford muses, "I suspect that she does indeed present it as such. If she is to be believed, then she is intent first and foremost upon eradicating the reformed faith from England - and all else shall follow only when that is done."

"That is madness," Southampton says, shaking his head, "How can she ensure settled government if her only interest is in undoing religious reforms?"

Anne shakes her head, "She is no fool - it is the act of youthful impetuosity. She does not have the experience of age to guide her as I have been guided, and thus she believes that all shall be set right in the realm purely by demanding that Englishmen bow their heads to the Pope. She has dreamed of this - but reality has not yet revealed its claws to her."

"Why has she not emerged from St Albans yet?" Audley asks, tentatively. Unlike Wingfield and Tunstall, both of whom are conspicuous by their absence, he has been too nervous of the risks in doing so to abandon the Council, and thus has thrown in his lot with the Regent instead, "Surely she must make her move soon - autumn is upon us, and the weather shall surely break."

"I suspect she is waiting for rumours to accumulate followers, Mr Audley." Petre muses, "Until she has sufficient numbers of folk to follow her, there is little worth in emerging from her new accommodation."

"Is she likely to have such numbers, Mr Petre?" Gage asks, sounding most worried.

All eyes turn, inevitably, back to Cromwell, though he does not look startled - he is used to such expectations.

"In terms of _overall_ numbers, she may gather a goodly number - though that is likely to consist of folk who are tempted by her religious statements, rather than the genuinely discontented. Men who are able to fight, however, shall be fewer in number than those that we can command."

"Gentlemen," Anne interrupts, "This is all speculation - and that helps no one. How quickly can we place men in the field, should the need arise?"

"I have ordered that the men that have been pledged be dispatched to London. They are gathering at Richmond Palace, for it is in a quieter location, and has extensive parklands that shall accommodate a large number of troops."

"How shall they be paid?"

Sussex smiles, "When we have sent Mary and her rabble packing, they shall be paid with the proceeds from the closure of the Abbey in St Albans."

She laughs, "I think that shall be some way off, my Lord. I assume, therefore, that we shall meet their expenses from the exchequer, and replenish the funds from the closure?"

Cromwell nods, “It shall be costly, I think; but, at this time, the exchequer has benefited from our less profligate expenditure, and thus can bear the cost."

"It is essential that they are paid, sirs - for if they are not, then we shall overturn all the good that we have done in freeing England from the old ways. I will not be seen as a woman who makes promises that she shall not keep." She pauses, and sighs, "Not at this stage of the reign, at least."

"If it please your Majesty," Southampton says, "I shall remove to Richmond on the morrow to oversee the marshalling of the men as they arrive."

"Thank you, my Lord." Anne smiles at him, "my Lord Rochford, I should be pleased if you assist the Lord President in his task - I expect to be kept apprised of all developments."

"Yes, Majesty." Since his return to the Council, Rochford has worked hard to build bridges with his fellow Councillors, and has been particularly successful in that regard with the Lord President and Lord High Admiral. Southampton certainly does not look discontented at the prospect.

"It is my hope that we shall not be obliged to march, Gentlemen," Anne says, "But should it come to pass, we must be ready."

She rises, bringing them all to their feet in response, and accepts their bows as she departs.

* * *

The wretched girl is in front of that damned shrine again, forever on her knees in front of the ornate, scandalously bejewelled casket that holds a pile of mouldering bones in the convinced belief that doing so shall give her England upon a plate. Cursing under his breath, Wiltshire looks out of the window of his accommodation - one of the few that affords a view out of the confinement within the walls of the Abbey. How strange that Mary has exchanged one form of incarceration for another. Does she prefer to be confined within religious walls, for God's sake?

Perhaps it is as well, for Suffolk's urgings of caution have proved to be prophetic over the last two weeks. Most of the townsfolk seem rather uncomfortable with the knowledge that the King's first daughter resides within their town's walls, though others - the ones who have made less profit this year - seem more willing to accept her. If she had been hoping for multitudes to be presenting themselves at the Abbey gatehouse, then the rather smaller numbers are less than encouraging. Perhaps that is why she prostrates herself before those bones.

His contribution of two thousand men-at-arms arrived yesterday, and are now housed out in the grounds close to the Abbey fishpond - though they are downstream of it so that they do not befoul the pond when they piss in the leat. Suffolk has assembled a similar number of men, and they are due on the morrow. Four thousand soldiers and perhaps half that amount of excitable peasants with barely sharpened farm implements. Perhaps he, too, should be prostrating himself before that bloody shrine: they shall need all the help that they can get.

Suffolk is poring over a large parchment map that has been set upon the table in the chamber that they have set aside for the Council - such as it is. He, too, is concerned that they do not have enough men - not when it is likely that most of the southern Nobility shall have declared for the Queen by now. Those in the north have so far not given any suggestion of their decisions - though their adherence to the old faith is strong. Perhaps they are waiting to see if the Queen's rising shall be successful - though it would be better if they could aid that success. The additional numbers could well be the deciding factor in the battle to come - for battle there shall be.

Unlike Wiltshire, he his more tolerant of his young Queen's frequent sorties to the shrine. Until she has spent some time upon the Throne, she shall struggle to learn the truth of being a Queen: that faith and politics rarely run in harness together. At least she shall not have to learn that lesson alone - for he shall be at her side to guide her as she takes those first steps. Hopefully he can dissuade her from her immediate commitment to stamp out heresy - for the reformed faith has taken a strong hold, and there are many who would be as keen to retain the new ways as there are those who wish to return to the old. She shall inherit a divided kingdom - and thus shall be obliged to tread most carefully if she is to navigate that tangled web.

He looks up as she returns, and nods his head respectfully, "Majesty."

"How goes the planning, my Lord?" she is keen to join him at the edge of the map, "Are you seeking routes into London?"

"Yes, Majesty. My men-at-arms shall arrive upon the morrow, and - with those who have declared for you, we shall muster a force of near on six thousand men."

She nods approvingly, "More shall follow as we move out into the countryside, my Lord - for we shall follow the Host, carried by Abbot Catton, while his prior carries a great cross. This is a pilgrimage: a pilgrimage of people who seek to restore the right rule of the realm."

"Yes, Majesty." Suffolk does not object - she has made that demand clear from the beginning, and he has long since abandoned any argument to the contrary. Instead, he points at the map, "I suggest a southeasterly route - for, while it is the most likely route that would be taken, it is also the only route that is easily traversable by an army. Besides, it is a populated route, and thus we may well inspire more men to join your cause as we go."

He looks up as one of Mary's maids pours a light, sweet wine into glasses, and crosses to offer them with a curtsey, before busying herself with gathering Mary's gloves and cloak - abandoned earlier after a walk outside to greet her troops.

"We shall make for Cathale Priory, Majesty, there we shall rest and celebrate Mass prior to your Majesty's entry into London. While it is doubtless known now that you have proclaimed yourself Queen, they shall not know whither you are bound, nor how many shall follow you from St Albans. It shall, however, take them some time to accumulate a force to oppose you - so I suggest that we allow my men one day's rest before we depart."

"So, the day after tomorrow?" Mary sounds most pleased.

He nods. As long as the Concubine knows nothing of their plans, there shall be none to oppose them in their journey to London.

Mary crosses herself, "God be praised - we shall reclaim England for his holy Church, and shall celebrate Christmastide at Placentia - as my father once did."

She sips at her wine, and does not notice as her maid departs with her garments.

* * *

Elizabeth has been working through verbs again, her facility with languages a skill that shall stand her in good stead to deal with her European neighbours when she rules for herself. Now, however, she is playing with the two spaniels that she was gifted while on progress, running through the formal gardens and laughing delightedly as the two pups tumble along in her wake.

Thank God she knows nothing of matters in St Albans, where Katherine's brat has been gathering a rabble of peasants and mercenaries to steal her crown. She still regards that misbegotten creature as a loving sister, who is pleased for her, and thus has no fear of the clouds that are gathering upon the northwestern horizon.

She turns as Lady Rochford opens the door to her Privy Chamber to admit her Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal. Where once they were careful to avoid one another as much as they could, now they seem to be more unusual if they are _not_ together. Given their joint political skill, however, it has been a great benefit to her rule that they are now allies.

"We have news from St Albans, Majesty." Cromwell advises, hastily, "Suffolk's troops were expected to arrive today, and thus they shall depart upon the morrow, with the intention of travelling to a small priory to the east. If we are to stop them, then our forces should depart from Richmond today. It shall require a forced march - but I am advised that Southampton has spent the last two weeks ensuring that the men are fit to undertake such a march, and thus we can do so with short notice. I have already dispatched a messenger by fast horse requiring that he and Rochford bring the army to the town of Barnet. A night march shall ensure that we are prepared for them, and we can then travel north to intercept them as they move east."

"We?" Anne looks interested, "You would not object to my presence?"

"On the contrary, I think it would be essential, Majesty. It would not do for men to go into battle while the one who sent them hides in the Palace. You have worked hard to win the regard of your subjects - and, while love is still to follow - a show of strength upon your part would serve you most well in the eyes of Englishmen."

"And Elizabeth?"

"She shall be well cared for: as her mother, it would be incumbent upon you to act for her protection. A small force of armed men shall remain here, with my Lord of Southampton to stand in your stead while you are in the field."

"And you, Mr Cromwell?"

"I shall accompany you, your Majesty." He replies, gravely, "Though I have fought in no wars since my youth, so I shall leave command to more capable men than I."

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell." To her surprise, Anne is most relieved that he has consented to travel with her. At such a time, she would be grateful for her father's company - but in its absence, she is grateful that he has stepped into that unwelcome breach, "I shall speak to Elizabeth. I should rather not shatter her innocent belief in her sister's love - but it would seem there is little choice. She shall demand to know why I am leaving her - and I can think of no explanation other than the truth."

"I think it best that she be aware of Mary's act against her, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "Once we have seen off the threat, we shall have to deal with her, and Elizabeth shall wonder why her sister is facing arrest."

"Let us speak to her together." Anne says, suddenly, "She regards you with affection, and views you as something of an uncle - I should like her to continue to trust your counsel as I do."

"I shall set to work upon preparations at the Palace, Majesty." Rich advises, then bows and departs.

"I see that you treat him with more trust than formerly, Mr Cromwell." Anne observes, as they make their way downstairs to the gardens, "Do you think that he can truly be trusted?"

"Yes - I think so." Cromwell agrees, "He has discovered that it is a great gift to be trusted - and thus seeks to be as he never did before."

Anne smiles, "I fear, however, that I shall never trust him to the degree that I trust you."

"Those are dangerous words, Majesty." Cromwell replies, impishly, "I am hardly fit to be trusted myself."

"Until my late Lord died, I would most certainly have agreed with you."

"Mama!" Elizabeth is rushing towards her, two pudgy puppies in tow, and laughs delightedly as Anne embraces her, then she sees that the Lord Treasurer is with her mother, and immediately disengages, "Good afternoon, Mr Cromwell."

"Good Afternoon, your Majesty." Cromwell bows to her, "I see that you have made two most admirable friends."

"I have indeed," She turns and points to one of the animals, "That is Castor, and the other is Pollux." Then she pauses, and thinks a moment or two, "Or is that Pollux and the other Castor?"

"I fear I cannot tell, Majesty." He says gravely, "I have not seen them since they were gifted to you."

"No matter, have you come to talk to Mama?"

"Yes, Majesty - and also to you."

"To me?" She looks intrigued, "Why - is it because I am Queen?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Anne holds out her hand to her daughter, and leads her to a shady pergola, where she sits alongside her child upon a bench. Cromwell stands alongside, while Lady Rochford stands a short distance away - a chaperone against unwanted gossip.

"Elizabeth, I must go away for a few days - possibly a little longer."

"Why, Mama?" the girl is confused, though not dismayed. She is used to living apart from her parents, though it has been a long time since she last did so.

"I wish that I did not have to tell you this, my sweetheart - but Mary has proclaimed herself Queen."

The girl frowns, "How is that so, Mama? Am I not Queen?"

"Yes, my dear heart, you are Queen - as was your late Papa's will, and as the Law says. But Mary has decided that she wishes to be Queen instead of you, and seeks to take your crown away."

"She would not do that, Mama - she would not! She is my sister and she loves me!" Elizabeth's shock is almost palpable, "She was so kind to me at Hatfield…"

"She was indeed, Elizabeth - and I think that she still holds you in her heart. I am afraid that it is her anger with me that has led her to do this, for she blames me for her not being a princess anymore."

"There must be a mistake, Mama - is it not a mistake?"

Anne shakes her head, "No, my beloved."

Cromwell remains silent. He is surprised, and relieved, that Anne has assured Elizabeth that Mary does not blame her for all that has occurred. The opportunity to claim that Mary has never loved her younger sister, and thereby build enmity between the two girls, would have been most tempting - but Elizabeth is still very young, and it is a burden that her mother does not wish to place upon her.

Elizabeth remains silent for a few moments, but then turns to look up at Anne, "I am the Queen, Mama - not Mary."

"Yes, my dear one. And that is why I must go, for Mary's false claim to your crown must be set aside; and I shall do it. For you, and for England."

Elizabeth sits up a little straighter, her alabaster face set and calm, "For England."

Smiling at her gently, Anne holds her close.

* * *

The column winds along the wide track, lit by flaming torches. At its head, the senior Lords and Officials of England surround the Queen Regent as they make their way north.

They do not have to go particularly far, as they intend to assemble all the Queen's forces at Barnet, before heading north to intercept the forces of the false Queen Mary. A messenger upon a fast horse has already come south to meet them, with a letter from Sussex to announce that he has assembled eight thousand men, and they have mustered just to the east of the town. An additional two thousand men are behind her, while the armaments and artillery are expected to be delivered to the Camp in the morning.

Riding to the rear of the group, Rich feels nervous, as he has never seen battle, and has never wished to. Alongside him, Cromwell is as impassive as ever, and he knows that his colleague has fought in wars. Whether that shall translate into participation in any ensuing combat, he cannot say with any certainty - but nonetheless, if battle is joined, he intends to be as far from it as possible. He might well have become more trustworthy - but that has not yet been followed by a commensurate increase in bravery.

"Do you think that she shall fight us?" he asks, eventually.

"I cannot say." Cromwell admits, "Though I hope not - for it is not men of our standing who are likely to die if she does."

Rich shudders at the thought, and falls silent again.

Dawn is breaking as the column finally reaches the fields where Sussex has assembled the Queen's army. Anne has no experience of war, but the expression upon the faces of those councillors who have suggests to her that the men before them are well prepared, and shall be well equipped. There are banners aplenty, fluttering in the brisk autumnal breeze, while clouds that are pendulous and pregnant with rain drift slowly overhead. In the distance, the armaments train is also approaching, while a large cadre of cooks are at work preparing oaten gruel thick with bacon and split peas upon which the soldiers shall break their fast.

"Do we know where Mary's forces are?" Anne asks, as she is served warmed cider and fine manchet bread in a small pavilion.

Sussex nods, "She has assembled some five thousand men-at-arms, and perhaps two thousand or so burghers and peasants." He advises, "They were seen to depart from St Albans at first light, and we expect them to pass to the north of us in some three hours from now. The road shall bring them south of the large Wrotham wood, and there we shall be able to engage them." His expression is odd, and Anne looks bemused.

"What concerns you, my Lord?"

"We shall engage Mary's contingent upon the same spot where the fourth Edward defeated the Kingmaker."

"I have not studied battles, my Lord."

Cromwell, on the other hand, has appreciated the significance, "It was a decisive battle in the Plantagenets' war, Majesty. Where the forces of the King defeated the Earl of Warwick, as he attempted to take the crown for the Sixth Henry. There was but one more battle between the houses of Lancaster and York - at Tewkesbury - but it was at Barnet that the fortunes of the house of York turned for the better."

"Then I shall take that as a good sign, Mr Cromwell."

"Yes, Majesty. I would, however, advise that you remain here when the Army departs."

She sighs, "I should prefer to see the defeat for myself."

"That, I understand, Majesty; but it would serve no one if there were a bowman amongst them who made a fortuitous shot."

Anne sags a little, but concedes the point, "In that case, I ask that you observe the battle. As soon as the outcome is known, you must return to me to advise me. Whatever happens, I must know as soon as it is over."

"I promise you that I shall do so, Majesty."

Anne turns to Rich, who has gone quite white at the thought of being obliged to attend, "Forgive me, my Lord, but I must have at least one of my immediate advisers at my side. Therefore I must ask you to remain here."

For a moment, she wonders if he might faint, but instead, he pulls himself together and bows, "As you demand, Majesty."

He does not see Cromwell offer Anne the faintest ghost of a wink. There may be another time when the Lord Privy Seal shall find it in himself to be brave - but this is not that time. It is better that he remain behind the lines - but Anne has granted him a reason to remain away from the field that shall not proclaim him a coward to all and sundry.

Bowing again, Cromwell smiles more broadly, then turns to find his horse.

The journey takes them a mile or so north of the town of Barnet, into a vale that offers cover upon the hillsides, and in the great woodlands that stretch far enough north to impede the eastward journey of an advancing column of soldiers. Mary's commanders shall have no alternative route to take - and thus they shall find themselves surrounded on all sides, and utterly unprepared for the assault that awaits them.

Sussex proves to be a most able commander, dispatching his men to various vantage points, while men with matchlocks are sent to the thicker cover, where their fuses shall not be seen so easily. Bowmen have been dispatched to lesser cover, and the infantry wait behind hastily constructed wattles thick with foliage. Not the most subtle of hides, perhaps - but sufficient to conceal them from a force that does not expect to be accosted. The only man that shall be upon the path itself is one who has been selected to act as a decoy to halt the column.

"Do not fire unless the signal is given!" Sussex demands, riding back and forth along the lines, "The Lady Mary must not be harmed under any circumstances, nor the lords Suffolk or Wiltshire! Remember, they must be taken alive - should they die, then the one who killed them shall die also! Is that understood!"

There is a low rumbling murmur of assent, and Sussex withdraws to the cover of the woods. It is inevitable that Mary's army shall come through this way - so now all they can do is wait.

* * *

Despite the objections of both Wiltshire and Suffolk, Mary rides at the head of her army, a fine bonnet upon her head, with her hair coifed in red velvet, and a steel cuirass over her black bodice. While the men at her back are doubtless fewer in number than those that shall be summoned by the Usurper, she is convinced that her cause is just, and thus God is upon her side.

In her time of imprisonment - luxurious though it was - she imagined this moment, dreamed it, played it over in her mind endlessly. She is the true Queen of England, and now she shall claim her crown. She has her Lord Chancellor at her side, and her Lord President, and her Lord Privy Seal. Sir Anthony Wingfield rides alongside Seymour, while Bishop Tunstall said Mass this morning, and called upon God to bless their enterprise. In time, she shall appoint the rest of the council, and England shall welcome her to her Capital.

She has few banners, or pennants, and thus the people in the fields seem to hang back, uncertain of whether or not to approach. No matter - they are fearful, and do not know that she is riding forth to liberate them from the unjust rule of a heretic. Behind her, the soldiers are bolstered by a large number of men who have abandoned their homes to fight for her, and she loves them for it. No one in London has even the first idea that she has departed St Albans - and thus the column moves at a leisurely pace - there seems little requirement to hurry and leave her men too tired to fight should they be obliged to do so.

Their way is obstructed by the great expanse of Wrotham wood - as Suffolk had warned her. Thus the column turns south towards Barnet, though they shall move northwards again to resume their easterly passage. Contented, Mary smiles, and offers up her thanks to God that her plans have begun to come to fruition.

Riding behind her, Suffolk is less convinced of their safety. While he has no reason to suspect that their plans are known, it is hard to be as assured as his Queen appears to be. She is convinced that God has blessed her intentions, he knows full well that it shall not be so easy as that. Whether they have God's blessings or not, the usurper shall not give up her daughter's crown without a fight - and where that fight shall be, he cannot begin to guess.

If they fail, then he knows too that his life shall be worth nothing, and neither shall Wiltshire's. That the Council know nothing of their army is meaningless - the Concubine has the resources to purchase an army should the need arise - but at least they have the element of surprise.

Beside him, Wiltshire seems to be dozing in his saddle, and he fights with himself not to scowl. Mary has accepted his pledge of loyalty, and will brook no disagreement, and so the self-interested Thomas Boleyn uses her to regain that which he lost thanks to his plotting against his own daughter. Lord above, how despicable a man is this? Should they face battle, he is quite convinced that the man shall turn tail and flee.

He is distracted from his brooding as they reach the southernmost part of their diversion prior to their transfer from the St Albans road to the Hatfield road. As the woods recede, he is surprised to see that a lone man sits upon a horse, watching their approach.

"Ho there, sir!" He rides forward, "Whither are you bound?"

"Nowhere of note, my Lord." The stranger is clearly able to recognise his rank from his clothing - for he is dressed according to his Lordly state, "Who might you be?"

"That is for me to know, sir. I must ask you to move aside."

"That I shall do - though I am surprised to see a woman in armour." The man is grinning, rather stupidly.

Behind him, Mary urges her horse forward, "I am the Queen." She says, calmly, "I wear armour for I lead an army to reclaim my crown."

"The Queen is in London, Madam." He shrugs, "I know not who you might be."

Rather than show temper, she smiles, "You have been deceived, good Sir. For the Queen is before you."

To her surprise, he laughs at her, "So you claim to be the Queen, and you lead an army while in armour? Is that not treason?"

"It is not, I assure you. I am the Queen by right of blood, and I intend to claim that which is mine!" she is becoming impatient now.

And then, in an instant, foliage drops, and there are ranks of men, bows drawn, matchlocks primed, while Sussex emerges from the woods at the head of a small platoon of guardsmen, "And so, my Lady, you have condemned yourself out of your own mouth."

Appalled she stares at the Earl, while Suffolk turns and looks around in shock. They knew - somehow, they knew…

Suddenly, there is absolute confusion, as the men behind her clamour to flee. Those to the rear are not soldiers, and thus they are permitted to depart. It is the leaders of the column that are to be detained.

"Defend her Majesty!" Wiltshire suddenly demands, looking around wildly at the impossible numbers that face them, "To arms!"

It is madness - but Suffolk can see no other course. If they are to escape, then they must distract the crowds of soldiers that surround them - and the only way to do it is to fight. To his surprise, the men that are at their back obey that furious command, forming up and surrounding them as Sussex and his troops emerge more overtly from their cover. Mary dismounts alongside Suffolk, while Wiltshire spurs his horse around the surging tide of bodies, "Protect her Majesty!" On the other side, Seymour does likewise - though Suffolk can no longer see either Wingfield or Tunstall, and can only assume that they have turned tail and fled.

"Come with me, Majesty." He grasps her arm and starts to force his way through the throng in what he hopes is the direction in which they have come. Surrounded as they are, he has lost his bearings - but all that matters now is to get her away from what is shortly to become an utter rout. They were betrayed - but by whom? Someone must have overheard their plans…someone with links to the Concubine…

Behind him, he hears the thud of bowstrings as the archers let loose. Immediately, he pulls Mary close and leans over her, "Forgive me Majesty - I have plate at my back, you do not."

No arrows fall around them, but he can hear the pained cries of men who have not been so fortunate. God, he must get her away from here - but a horse…he must find her a horse…

"Wiltshire!" he can see Boleyn a hundred feet away, shouting and kicking out at men who now seem intent only upon flight, "The Queen!"

He looks at them for the briefest of moments as though balancing a choice, then claps his heels to the horse's flanks, urging the animal forward - only to find that the press of men is such that he cannot make headway against the throng, "Out of my way, damn you! Suffolk! I cannot get to you, come forth to me!"

But they can no more reach him than he can reach them, for the rout is such that none care any longer for anything other than escape - the death that awaits them if they are captured a sufficient motive to trample even a queen underfoot if she is in the way. Wiltshire is fighting to keep his seat as his horse stumbles back and forth, attempting to set down its feet upon ground, not men.

"My Lord - go," Mary is breathless, "I need you alive. I shall not die - she shall send me into exile. Flee the field, flee the Realm, and await my departure from England. I shall surrender myself to her, and thus we shall be free to fight again. I cannot do so if you are dead. Join Wiltshire - work for my cause while I am imprisoned: the Lords of the North - his Holiness, his Imperial Majesty. I am the Queen, and I shall claim my throne in the end; but that day is not today."

"Majesty…"

"Go!" Her eyes are anguished, "If we cannot win this day, then we shall fight again upon another! I must have my councilmen free to aid me when I am gone from England - and there is no way to do so other than to place myself in the hands of our enemies. I am not afraid - if I must become a martyr, then so I shall!"

Helplessly, he stares at her - such courage - but can she not see that she has failed? There shall be no opportunity to regroup and start again if she is in the Tower, or placed into a marriage far from England. If God had wanted them to enter London, then they would have done so - but instead they have been trapped and defeated without even the opportunity to raise their own weapons.

"Find the Lady Mary!" someone's voice cries behind them, "Find her and bring her to my Lord of Sussex! A gold mark to the man who finds her!"

There is no option - he must flee, or die. "It is my order as your Queen," she demands, "conceal yourself in the woods and work for my cause in exile. If I am to die, then you shall have a martyr and England shall turn from the Concubine and her false faith."

His eyes agonised, Suffolk stares at her as she turns and steps back into the throng. Almost at once, someone has snatched her arm, and she is pulled away - and their excitement at discovering her has distracted the soldiers from those who were with her. Forcing his way towards Wiltshire, he accepts a proffered arm and is quickly astride the horse behind the Earl. Now that they are moving with the flow of people, it is a simple matter to kick the horse into a gallop, and the pair take flight with the men who have abandoned Mary's short-lived cause. God alone knows where Seymour has got to. It may be that he, too, is taken. As it is, they are now fugitives from the Regent - and shall have great prices on their heads before the day is out. Assuming that they can even find safe shelter, who would listen to their importunings now? He shall certainly try - but that is all he can do: try.

Such high hopes; but that is over - in the space of a scant two weeks, Mary Tudor has gambled for the throne. And lost.

* * *

Anne sits and fidgets, wondering what is happening; while, nearby, Rich, Petre, Gage and Southampton speculate pointlessly about an outcome that shall present itself of its own volition. They have been gone near on three hours now - and still nothing. Has her army prevailed? Were they obliged to fight? Have men died?

And then, at last, the thud of hooves upon heavy ground as a horse is ridden back into the camp. Immediately, she is upon her feet as Cromwell hastens into the pavilion.

"Majesty, it is over. There was no battle - though the archers were obliged to loose several volleys as the Lady's troops fell into disarray and attempted to conceal her. She is taken, as is Seymour, and most of her soldiers. Only those who followed the camp have escaped - though there is no news yet of Wiltshire or Suffolk. It is presumed that they have fled the field."

"So it is done."

"Yes, Majesty."

Anne sinks back into her chair. At least there has been little in the way of bloodshed - at least on the part of her own soldiers. Now she must think what to do with those who have been captured. Mary, of course, shall be removed from England to some suitable Protestant kingdom as far away as possible - but what of Seymour? What of the soldiers who were raised to fight against her? Should they be punished?

"Send Seymour and those of the army that are officers to the Tower to await our further pleasure." She says, quietly, "Disband the foot soldiers and send them back to their shires - but ensure that they are fined for their disloyalty to their Kingdom. The Lady shall be returned to Hunsdon, where she shall be close confined - none of her previous retinue are to attend her. From this day forth, only a household loyal to her Majesty shall be permitted to attend her, and they shall be replaced at every quarter, to ensure that none develop a misplaced attachment. We shall then decide what is to be done with her at our leisure."

"What of Suffolk and Wiltshire?" Cromwell asks, quietly, "They remain at large."

"Offer suitably large rewards for their capture." Anne says, "If they escape England, then that is that - but if they do not, then I wish for them to join Seymour in the Tower." She pauses, "Also, send the Seymour girl there - and the Clarencieux woman. They were complicit in the plans that the girl hatched - and so they should at least spend a suitable period of time in confinement to remind them where their loyalties should truly lie. But house them well."

Cromwell bows, and turns to Rich, who nods and departs the tent, "It shall be done, Majesty."

As the evening draws in, the army returns from the field. The deaths have largely been confined to those who were with Mary, as they were felled by arrows - but one or two men in the royal army have been lost. On the whole, however, there has been a remarkable lack of bloodshed, and she is grateful for it.

Perhaps now, in the face of such an easy victory, people shall accept that God has chosen Elizabeth to rule England, and she can - at last - set to work.


	26. A Paper Wedding

The house is well set in fine parkland just south of the town of Barnet, and has been granted to the Regent by its owner, a grateful gentleman who owns it only because it was once upon Church lands. Lands that are now his.

Mary has been housed in one of the larger upstairs chambers, a well appointed space with carpets upon the floors, a fine tester bed, and comfortable chairs around a large fireplace. None of her women are with her, having remained with the captured baggage train without horses to ride; and thus unable to flee. They have been placed in a covered wagon and are even now on their way to the Tower, with a large escort of the Queens' guards, while a messenger has been sent on to ensure that the Queen's House has been prepared for them.

Fidgeting with a loose button upon a quilted cushion, Anne stares out of the leaded window at the garden beyond, slightly distorted by the bulbous glass. That darker, more primal part of her nature longs to have sent Mary with them; but she knows that her future reputation shall be coloured by what happens now. She does not need Mr Cromwell to tell her that Mary must not be made a martyr, either to her overblown faith or to her claim of a blood inheritance. No - the brat must be forgiven, in spite of her almost certain refusal to accept mercy or forgiveness. Does she know yet that the people did not rise to her call? That those who followed her did so for reasons other than some perceived higher purpose? Perhaps she does - but Anne knows well that the girl has one, fatal flaw. She believes that all men are as slavishly pious as she is. Does she even realise that her beloved church is a rotting corpse of corruption?

It matters not - she has attempted to raise England against her Queen, and now awaits that Queen's pleasure. Or, at least, that of the Regent.

She looks up at the sound of a knock upon the door, and waits as Matthew opens it, "Majesty, the Lord Treasurer."

For the first time since she returned from their camp, she smiles, "Come in, Mr Cromwell."

Cromwell enters, and bows, "Majesty, the Lady is installed in her rooms, and is well guarded. I have appointed two particularly fervently protestant ladies to see to her needs - though I have advised them not to enter into any arguments with her over matters of religion. I have no wish for the guards to be obliged to enter the room and separate a group of screeching women pulling at one another's hair."

"Seymour?"

"Chained and also being marched south to the Tower." Cromwell sighs, "Both Suffolk and Wiltshire are being hunted - but I think it likely that they have fled the field upon horseback, as has Wingfield, for they are not amongst those who have been rounded up from the field."

"And what of them - have they been dispatched back to their homes?"

"Most, yes - other than those who do not have the funds to pay the fine that has been levied upon them."

"In that case, they shall enter the Royal army until they have earned sufficient wages to pay those fines. Then they shall be freely discharged." She indicates that Cromwell sit.

"Your late Lord would, almost certainly, have demanded their heads." He admits.

"I am not my late Lord - and I do not enjoy his power or the love of his Subjects, Mr Cromwell. Thus I must act with a gentler hand." Then she scowls, "Though I should delight in obliging that girl to subject herself to my wrath, she is protected by virtue of that which drives her to demand Elizabeth's crown."

Cromwell nods, and sighs, "I think she hopes for martyrdom - and, in so doing, drive out the protestant faith through the sending of a Catholic army to destroy us in vengeance."

"Then she shall hope in vain, for I shall not play that game with her - much as I should like to." Anne admits, "To do what she has done is treason - and I cannot demand the price of that from her."

"Then she shall receive that which she has always desired." Cromwell says, quietly, "A husband."

Anne looks at him, surprised, "You have found someone who would serve as a suitable lord for her hand?"

"Possibly. I have heard that King Gustav of Sweden is widowed, for his previous wife died after she fell while dancing. She was with child - and the fall appears to have corrupted the pregnancy, and taken her life with it. While she had granted him a son, there is but one of their union. Thus he seeks a new Queen. Who better than a young woman who is well grown and ready to bear many children, and also the daughter of a great King? He is Protestant - determinedly so - but desires greatly to have many sons to follow him, for he is the first of his house, and thus must choose his spouse with care to avoid the anger of his nobility."

Anne nods. Of all things, Mary desires to marry and have sons - for that is the first duty of a Princess, is it not? Once, she was paraded before the Princes of Europe as a potential bride - only for her fortunes in the marriage market to wax and wane with Henry's capriciousness as he betrothed her to one Prince, then to another, then to another, as his allegiances shifted. Thus she is almost too old to be a royal bride, and only her intact state shall win her a husband now, "Though is it not possible that he shall reject her on the grounds of her bastardy? She is, after all, the child of a King's invalid marriage."

"I am sure a suitably large dowry, and promises of trade and martial support, shall overcome that." Cromwell says, quietly, "If he can be persuaded to accept her, then it shall also be possible to deliver her to her new Kingdom by sea, and thus there shall be no danger of Catholic sympathisers attempting to waylay her."

Anne sighs, "Do you also feel some measure of guilt in doing so?"

He looks up at her, and nods, "We are inflicting a grievous punishment upon a young woman who has done naught but that which she thinks to be right. She is young, and has received an education of great stature - but not one that has aided her in navigating waters as treacherous as these."

"But we must do so - for if we do not, then she shall be free to raise men against Elizabeth again - and that I shall not have."

The pair turn at another knock upon the door, and Matthew opens it to reveal Michael without, "Majesty, Mistress Horsman has asked me to advise you that the Lady has asked for an audience."

Anne looks at her two stewards, then at Cromwell, and then back again, "Very well, advise her to escort the Lady to my Privy Chamber. I shall speak with her."

Michael nods, and withdraws.

"Do you wish to speak to the lady in private, or would you prefer if I remain?"

Anne shakes her head, "Matthew, kindly summon Sussex, Mr Rich and Lord Rochford. If any other members of the Council are present, send them, too. I think it best that she meets the Regent and the Council in the first instance. Whether I shall speak to her in private at any time afterwards shall be determined by her behaviour. She despises me, and thus I think it best that we are united in our dealings with her - and absolutely transparent. I have no wish to give her cause to claim that she has been treated poorly."

"Yes, Majesty."

* * *

Mary is still in the garments that she was wearing when in her procession, the bonnet and red coif, and the cuirass, which is slightly dented, over her black gown - and looks rather ridiculous now that she is facing the Council, rather than battle. Her expression is most defiant; but then, she has little choice other than to look so.

Seated in a fine chair, her Canopy of Estate over her head, Anne regards her. So young - so foolish; so utterly lacking in the pragmatism that is essential for one who must rule a Kingdom, "Lady Mary."

"Madame." The girl's answer is terse, reluctant. To use the term 'Majesty' apparently unthinkable.

"You have attempted to raise an army against the lawful Queen of England." Anne continues, "What have you to say?"

"Only that _I_ am the lawful Queen of England, Madame. I seek only to claim that which is mine by right."

If she expects gasps of shock from the men around the woman before her, she is disappointed - for Anne has demanded that they remain impassive, no matter what is said. Deprived of that impact, Mary looks less certain, but retains that defiant expression as best she can, "So, what is to be my fate, Madame? The Tower? The stake?"

"Neither, my Lady. It is not my intention to make a martyr of you - no matter how greatly your heart might desire it. On the contrary. You are to return to your house at Hunsdon, where you shall resume your former life. I shall not, however, permit you to plot again - your household shall be appointed by the Council in its entirety, and shall be replaced regularly, though you shall not be advised when that shall occur. Your former ladies are currently lodged at the Tower."

Mary flinches slightly, and her expression wavers for a moment, but with a visible effort, she forces herself to become impassive again.

"I can assure you that they are well lodged, and shall remain so. Their fates, however, are in your hands. Should you plot against the Queen again - be it thought, word or deed - then I shall be forced to reconsider my response to their acts of treason against her Majesty."

The girl sways slightly, but again forces herself to stand up straight, "And if others plot in my name - and I know of it not? What then?"

"If you know nothing of it, then you have nothing to fear. But there shall be no letters, no whispered messages, no attempts to win favour with your servants. You shall remain at Hunsdon until such time as arrangements for your future are settled."

"God shall determine my future, Madame." Mary's voice is low, venomous, "You destroyed my mother, the true Queen of England, and set your own spawn upon a throne in my place. He shall turn from this land for her sin, and her wanton whoring for her own pleasure! I shall regain that which you stole from me, and overturn all of your heresies! For you are naught but a mistress! A mere wanton! There is no drop of royal blood in you, and thus that of your child is poisoned by your common birth!"

Once, perhaps, Anne would have risen to such provocation; but there is now too much at stake. Instead, she remains impassive and cold; her face like stone. The men that stand alongside her are shuffling slightly, she can sense it; but they, too, keep their peace. All of the barbs that Mary has thrown at the woman before her seem to have done naught but glance off - and she stands where she is, her face reddened with temper, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"You have fomented rebellion in the Realm, Madame." Anne replies, her voice as cold as her expression, "It is for the love that I bear your late father that I do not dispatch you forthwith to the Tower. England did not rise to follow your call - only a ragged rabble of men with no better industry to occupy them who fled at the first sight of an army. They have returned to their homes, and shall not think of you again."

That seems to have had an impact, as the girl's eyes widen at the suggestion that she has not won the love of the people of England, "That is not so. I am the daughter of the true Queen of England…my Subjects would not forget me…"

Her voice is defiant - but now it is tinged with doubt.

"It is so. England has a Queen, and that Queen is not you. Thus I, as Regent, command that you be returned to your house at Hunsdon, until a decision has been made as to your future life. Go."

Mary scowls, but only a blind man could fail to see that her eyes are brimming, as the reality of her failure is beginning to sink in. For a moment, Anne is tempted to try to extend the hand of friendship; but even now Mary would reject it in fury, and thus she stays still and watches as Mary turns to depart. It matters not that the girl has failed to curtsey to her - to comment upon it would be a petty matter in the face of her victory.

As soon as she is gone, Anne turns, "Mr Cromwell, ensure that she receives every courtesy and comfort prior to her departure. If she refuses to speak to you, then send someone to her whom she shall accept."

He nods, "Yes, Majesty." Bowing, he, too, retreats.

The lady is sitting upon the edge of her bed as he is admitted into her chamber. She has failed to remove her warlike garments, and instead stares glassily at the wainscoting, clearly fighting with herself not to shed tears.

"Is that cuirass not uncomfortable, my Lady?" he asks, politely, "surely it would be easier if you removed it?"

Mary does not answer, but continues to stare at the wainscoting. Eventually, she speaks, "What shall happen to me?"

Cromwell sighs, "As you have been advised, my Lady - you shall return to Hunsdon to resume your former life. At this time, what follows shall be at her Majesty's pleasure; but there is no intention to imprison you."

"Beyond my clear confinement at Hunsdon?"

Cromwell fidgets, uncomfortably, "My Lady, you shall be offered every comfort, as before; you shall not be obliged to pay for your household, nor shall your possessions be taken from you. I am sure that there are many items at Hunsdon that are precious to you - and the contents of your baggage train are here, so any items of importance to you that you carried therein shall also be returned to you."

Mary slumps slightly, and closes her eyes, allowing one of the pooled tears to fall, "Thank you." She whispers, "My mother's rosary is held in a coffer in one of the baggage carts."

"I shall ensure that it is recovered and restored to you."

"And the…Regent…shall permit that?"

"Her Majesty the Regent has authorised me to ensure that you receive every comfort and courtesy, my Lady. That would most assuredly include the restoration of treasured possessions." He pauses, "If it is your wish, I shall retrieve the appropriate coffer for you immediately."

"Why are you doing this?" she turns then, "You have ever been my enemy."

"Perhaps, my Lady; but I have seen too much viciousness and anger in my time at Court - and is it not better to be good to one another? I do not think that her Majesty the Queen would wish to see her beloved half-sister destroyed; and I - as a parent bereaved of two girls - have no wish to inflict undue indignities upon you. That she has asked me to offer you every courtesy demonstrates that her Majesty the Regent also has no wish to do so."

Mary shakes her head, "That, I cannot believe, Mr Cromwell - but I should appreciate it if you could reunite me with my coffer. It is built of sycamore and carved with biblical scenes."

He bows to her, "I shall see to it at once."

She watches as he departs, and sighs, miserably. He is no friend to her - she knows it; but still he is magnanimous in victory. At least she shall be safely installed in Hunsdon for the time being; and thus her cause is not dead. Perhaps, with God's help, Suffolk and Wiltshire shall find a way to come to her aid - and thus she can make another attempt to regain her stolen crown.

* * *

Seated in his great Library, Thomas Howard squirms slightly on the cushions of his favourite chair and glowers at the fire, wondering what the hell is happening beyond the bounds of his castle walls at Arundel.

The loss of his court prestige still rankles extensively, particularly given that it was at the hands of Rochford - that duplicitous little runt. Ousting not only himself, but also his own father - and all by the simple expedient of introducing that damned letter from Richmond, and pretending ignorance over its presence amongst his papers. Who could have thought that a man so lacking in wise sense could have acted so? But then, the utter lack of sophistication in the execution of his betrayal can only mean that Rochford acted alone. Only he could have been so childishly unsubtle - but the means matters not; it worked, and thus the premier Peer of the Realm is now obliged to languish in the countryside while the daughter of a commoner rules the Kingdom on behalf of a babe.

Now that the excesses of his temper have settled rather more, he is rethinking his strategy. When he was first banished, he had decided to wash his hands of the entire affair and leave the blasted woman to fail, and hang the consequences. Now, however, his wish to be at the centre of politics is returning; and, with no Richmond to whom he can tie his ambitions, it must be the girl Mary, or no one.

Such is his determination both to reclaim his lost power, and to avenge that loss, that even being obliged to fight with an opinionated, headstrong girl is preferable to this wretched rustication. He has, in his favour, the fact that his family's credentials are wholeheartedly Catholic, which shall attract her, and the fact that he has proven skills upon the battlefield as a commander of men. He has - admittedly - acted against her in previous years, but with her options as limited as they are, she is hardly likely to rebuff him in the face of the advantages he can offer her.

Rising from his chair, he moves to a nearby desk and sits there instead, his chin propped upon his hands. Given that Wiltshire was also banished, there is the possibility of an alliance with the Earl. While Mary was known to despise him, thanks to his actions on behalf of a King who wanted his suddenly bastardised child shut away from his sight, a conversion back to the 'true faith' should overturn that…and Suffolk was for the brat all along anyway. Thus, if he can make contact with them, there is every opportunity to win over Katherine's benighted daughter and set her upon her throne. Even if she refuses to accept a Lord Protector, Tunstall's suggestion of recreating the post of Lord High Steward shall certainly overcome _that_ stumbling block.

He is disturbed from his musings by a knock upon the door, and it opens to reveal one of his stewards, "Your Grace, a man claiming to be his Grace Bishop Tunstall is without, and seeks an urgent audience with you. He is dressed most roughly, but has presented a pectoral cross upon a chain, a gold ring and a purple skullcap as evidence of his identity. I thought to bar him from the gate, but he was insistent."

Norfolk is intrigued, and decides not to have the man ejected, "Then it may indeed be his Grace - but I shall soon know it if he is not. I shall see him in my Privy Chamber. Escort him there."

"Yes, your Grace."

Something has happened - Tunstall has no reason to be here if all is well at Court. Intrigued, Norfolk looks out of the wide windows from his library down to the great quadrangle below, before adjourning to his private apartments.

Tunstall, when he is shown in, is mud-spattered and dishevelled thanks to a hard, long ride, while his purple zucchetto and cassock have been abandoned in favour of singularly noisome garments presumably stolen from a peasant's hovel. The only evidence he has to prove his true status is already in Norfolk's hands, courtesy of the Steward. He looks fretful, and is hard put not to begin pacing back and forth.

"Well?" Norfolk does not need to ask what has happened. It is clear that a momentous event has occurred, and all he requires is to know what that event has been.

"I…" Tunstall forces himself to stop fidgeting, "The Lady Mary proclaimed herself Queen at St Albans two weeks ago - and attempted to raise an army against the Regent. While leading her men to a Priory some distance east from St Albans, in hopes of marching upon London in secret, her column was ambushed at Barnet, and she was taken."

"And you fled." Norfolk says, his expression cold.

"I…I did not know what else to do, your Grace. I am no warrior - and it was of concern to me that news of her capture be spread to those who might be able to effect a rescue."

"Or those who shall hide you from the Regent's vengeance."

"Seymour is taken - Wingfield was with me, but we were separated in the woods, and I know not where he is now. Suffolk and Wiltshire…"

"Wiltshire?" Norfolk stares, startled - while he had considered persuading Mary to accept the Earl through the presentation of a supposed 'conversion' it had not occurred to him that the man would do such a thing upon his own initiative.

"Yes, your Grace. My Lord of Wiltshire has recanted, and sworn his service wholly to the Lady." Tunstall is still unsure of how his news shall be received, "I remained only to learn what I could of the fates of those who led that column - before I came south to report the matter to you."

"And what do you expect me to do? I am banished from Court upon pain of execution should I attempt to act against the Regent again."

Again, Tunstall fidgets, "If the Lady Mary is to achieve the objectives she undertook to proclaim at St Albans, then the aid of the premier Peer of the Realm is now essential, for only the great Lords of the North did not declare for the Regent when she called upon them."

"Did they declare for Mary?"

"Er…they did not."

No surprise there - the risk of declaring allegiance in an insurrection is always that one shall lose all should one declare for the losing side. They used their distance from the fray as an excuse to avoid declaring until the outcome was known. Not that he can criticise them for doing it - he probably would have done no differently.

"And what of the Lady? Where is she bound - the Tower?"

"I do not know." Tunstall admits, a little shamefacedly.

"You do not know." Norfolk snorts, contemptuously, "You bound yourself to her fate when you thought her likely to succeed, and now you flee like vermin from a dog in the face of her failure."

Tunstall shuffles, and reddens. Disgusted, Norfolk turns away and crosses to the fireplace, "It seems, then, that the hour calls me forth. Since you have seen fit to discard your priestly garments, you shall depart from this place and seek out Wiltshire and Suffolk in the guise of a common peasant. Send them to me - I shall give you personal items to use as tokens. Their plotting has failed, and thus I shall take command of the Lady Mary's Council until such time as she has regained her throne."

"Yes, my Lord." Tunstall sounds most relieved, "I shall do as you ask."

"You most certainly shall. For if you do not, you shall be hunted down like a dog and dragged to Tyburn upon a hurdle. Now, remove yourself from my home. There is a rough tavern in the town where you shall stay this night, for I shall not have you under my roof. I shall send a steward with the tokens in due course."

Too embarrassed to be affronted, Tunstall nods, bows, and flees.

Ignoring the Bishop's humiliating departure, Norfolk turns his attention back to the fireplace, his eyes narrowed and vicious. So, the first attempt to remove that Woman has failed. In that case, he shall take the lead - and this time, they shall win.

* * *

Anne reads the letter that is to be dispatched to Sweden in the care of Southampton, Sadleir and an escort of royal guards, "This seems most satisfactory in its terms. Are we sure that we are not too late? He may already have decided to marry within his Kingdom."

"Matters are rather unstable in Sweden, Majesty," Rich is perusing a report that has been sent through from their ambassador in the Court of France, "King Gustav was elected to his position after a period of considerable strife, and his position is still not entirely secure, particularly in terms of overseas relations. His late wife gave him but one son, and he - as was your late Lord - is keen to accumulate more in order to achieve that security. Our sources in France suggest that he is looking for allies with reformist principles in order to further a reformation already under way in his own lands."

Anne's eyebrows rise, "Elected?"

"Indeed, Majesty - I believe that, prior to King Gustav, Sweden's Kings were elected to their position by the nobility; though it is suspected that he intends to overturn this practice, and favour primogeniture instead."

"Naturally - to be granted the crown by consent of the nobility: what a strange notion. How on earth could any King rule with such a price held over his head?" She looks concerned again, "Have we offered enough to persuade him to accept the match? She is, after all, tainted by bastardy."

"The dowry is of a proportion fitting to a princess of the Blood, Majesty," Sussex advises, "In addition, England shall offer military and naval support to Sweden in times of war, as brethren in the face of the malevolence of Rome. The lady is still sufficiently young to bear many children, is well educated and schooled in appropriate manners. Furthermore, she is the daughter of a great Prince of Christendom. If matters in Sweden are indeed as precarious as we are led to believe, then his Majesty shall need all the allies that he can find. Equally, I am advised that his Majesty is a clever diplomat and in possession of a most shrewd wit. I think it likely that he is more than capable of the pragmatism that his position requires."

"Very well. Ensure that the Embassy is as finely presented as possible - I should not be pleased for our overtures to be rejected upon the grounds that we look to be too poor a nation to offer a worthwhile alliance."

"There is also the issue of how quickly the marriage can be solemnised, Majesty," Cranmer advises, back at the table for the first time in some months, thanks to an ongoing scandal involving a pregnancy in the household of the Dean of Canterbury, "It may be better that the matter be settled by proxy - given the distance involved, that would be a reasonable expectation. I believe that there is an excellent portrait of the lady that was painted only a few years ago, which should also be sent. She has not changed greatly in appearance since then."

Cromwell looks surprised, "And thus you would present the matter to the Lady as a _fait accompli_?"

Anne looks at him with sympathy - a man with daughters who died before they were fully old enough to enter the marriage market, he seems to have quite forgotten that a gentlewoman's marriage is _always_ presented as a _fait accompli_. She is less usual in that respect - as her marriage to the King was based entirely upon desire, and she fought for it as much as he did - but Mary would not expect that. All seem to forget that, prior to her marriage to Henry, it had been intended to marry her off to another man in exchange for his dropping a claim to a title her father wanted. No - her nuptials would have been entirely a political transaction, and her opinion would not even have been sought. The only reason that she was not married three or more years ago was her father's regular abrogation of treaties when they no longer suited his interests, "Mr Cranmer, I think you to be right. While Mary is no babe, the distance between our two nations is such that none would remark upon it. Furthermore, her eagerness to be wedded is well known: and thus none would object upon her behalf, for she has been given only that which she has expressly desired to have."

Anne sits back in her chair, relieved that another has made that suggestion. Hoist by her own petard: how fitting. The girl has made no secret of her dismay that she is near-on twenty one years of age, and still unmarried. For a woman of her station, that is a shocking oversight on the part of her parents. She should have been wedded and bedded at least four years back - either to a Prince of the Empire or of France - but Henry would not do it, and certainly would not once her bastardy was declared. Thus she remains in England, and remains a dangerous thorn in her stepmother's side.

"Dispatch the Embassy to Sweden with all haste, Gentlemen." She says, firmly, "It is my wish that the Lady Mary be the property of a husband by the commencement of Advent - and thus we shall be free to celebrate Christmastide without her shade haunting the Court. That shall be all for today."

She watches as they rise, and bow, before gathering their papers and departing. Seated alone at the head of the table, Anne considers the thought that Gustav shall say yes to the marriage. Then, all that she shall be obliged to do is pay for a suitably sparkling trousseau for the wretched girl, so that Sweden is not insulted by an under-jewelled bride.

Mary shall not like it, of course - not to go somewhere so far removed from her beloved bell, book and candle; but nor can she complain. All know that she is embittered over her spinsterhood, and to marry a King in spite of the invalidity of her parents' marriage is more than she can hope for. That it is a protestant King in a country far to the north matters not - she is getting a royal wedding, and all shall be joyful.

Even if she is not.

* * *

Elizabeth is, at last, free from the constraints of the leading rein, and rides Orithyia around the paddock as she wishes. The two pages are now obliged to run to keep up with her, though she has never fallen - her skills in the saddle apparently equal to her skills in the schoolroom.

Watching, Anne smiles for the first time in nearly four weeks. While the negotiations in Sweden are entirely out of her hands, she nonetheless frets over the matter almost constantly. What if the Embassy has been lost at sea? Or waylaid on the way from Gothenburg? What if Gustav is already married? Or, worse, he is not but refuses to wed the bastard brat of a dead King?

The weather has continued to be balmy as autumn encroaches upon the parklands, turning the green sycamores a wondrous red as the leaves prepare to fall. The lowest of the kitchen staff have been dispatched to seek out chestnuts, to be brought back and stored for roasting as winter closes in, while the gardeners are hard at work cutting back the roses in preparation for the frosts to come. There is no sign that God is displeased with her, or her daughter - and the returning Members of the Commons, summoned for their final session before Christmastide, say nothing of insurrection or discontent in the shires.

Yes - Mary chose the worst possible time to attempt to raise England against her sister. She could not claim that God was displeased, for there was no sign of it, nor could she offer to aid the starving and dispossessed, for the institutions that Anne had wanted to establish more than a year ago are now present - and the Churches ever preach upon the virtue of charity towards one's fellow man.

An entirely new suite of servants began work at Hunsdon only a few days back - selected from the Palace staff to exchange places with colleagues sent out there and now called back to Whitehall. Once she has heard from Southampton, she shall order the Court's removal back to Placentia - Henry always liked to celebrate Christmastide there…

"Look at me, Mama!" Elizabeth's voice calls across, and she does so, to see her daughter bobbing up and down as Orithyia trots. She has not yet learned the trick of rising and falling in the saddle in order to hold herself more steady, but, equally, she has only recently been permitted to travel at a speed faster than a mere walk, but as she approaches the fence, she slows the horse with surprising ease, and stops directly in front of her mother.

"My goodness, Majesty. That is excellent. We shall make a horsewoman of you yet!" she smiles, delightedly.

Elizabeth laughs, and then looks behind Anne's shoulder, "Mr Cromwell is coming Mama."

Anne turns, and indeed there he is, approaching with a folio under his arm. He does not move with urgency - but there must be a message of importance, otherwise he would not be here, "Thank you, my precious; go to - I shall speak to Mr Cromwell, and we shall dine later in your Privy Chamber."

"Yes, Mama." With a click of her tongue, Elizabeth urges Orithyia back towards Sir Anthony, who remains her riding tutor.

"We have it, Majesty." Cromwell's voice is low, "It makes good reading. I think you shall be most pleased."

He opens the folio and retrieves a large, folded paper, which Anne fights with herself not to snatch from him.

_Most Gracious Majesty,_

_I am pleased to report that we landed at Gothenburg upon the fifteenth day of October, to find that the King and his Retinue had travelled from Stockholm to greet us at a fine Castle just beyond the City. There we were entertained, and presented your Majesty's offer of Mary's hand._

_Upon reading the terms of the marriage, his Majesty proved most interested, and admitted to us that he had come to us upon hearing that a daughter of King Henry of England was being presented to him as a prospective Bride - furthermore, he was pleased that it was the elder, for he knew that a marriage to Elizabeth would have been invalid on account of her age. Thus he is content to accept Mary in her place, and consented to undertaking a marriage by proxy upon viewing her portrait._

_Thus my Lord of Southampton, as Lord President of the Council of Queen Elizabeth of England, stood proxy for the Lady Mary as she was married to his Majesty, King Gustav of Sweden upon the twentieth day of October. The marriage documents have been signed and sealed, and are also enclosed. Thus the marriage was celebrated with feasting, and hunting. Mr Sadleir has been invited to return to Stockholm to establish a formal Ambassadorial residence, and awaits your pleasure to name a suitable candidate for that position._

_A formal blessing of the marriage shall be performed in the great cathedral of St Nicholas in Stockholm prior to the new Queen taking up residence in one of his castles, for Sweden does not yet have a true Royal Palace._

_His Majesty does not require the Lady to be referred to as a Princess, for he accepts that the validity of her birth is disputed - but he is intent upon alliance with England, and thus looks to formalise that alliance through marriage. Thus it is proposed that she be referred to as the Lady Mary, daughter of Henry the Eighth of England, France and Ireland, and such title has been set upon the marriage documents, to serve until she is crowned Sweden's Queen._

_Thus I return to England anon, and shall - with your authorisation - commence the assembly of a fleet suitable to escort the Lady to her husband's side._

_W Fitzwilliam. E of Southampton._

Cromwell has burrowed into that folio again, and holds out what can only be the formalisation of the marriage. Fighting with herself not to snatch that, too, Anne unfurls it, and reads the text with great care. The document is in Latin - the only common tongue between the two nations - and it is highly detailed. No matter how hard she tries, Mary shall be unable to claim there is no validity to this document - she is, in the eyes of all the laws of Europe, now married to King Gustav of Sweden, and shall have no alternative other than to depart England and never return.

"It is done." She says, quietly, "And she shall indeed be gone by All Saints Day."

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell agrees.

"We shall depart for Hunsdon upon Southampton's return, Mr Cromwell." She says, firmly, "I wish to impart this news to her - for I wish to see her face as she realises that she has been bested, and that she must depart England immediately. I shall not have it given to her by a Councillor. She has attempted to spite me, and thus I wish to show her that her spite has led only to her exile."

There is little point in objecting, so Cromwell opts not to, "Yes, Majesty. I shall make arrangements for a deputation and escort."

Anne nods as he bows and departs. Then she turns back to the now empty paddock, her eyes distant. All that matters to her is to rule well, and prepare England for her daughter's reign. Mary has stood in the way of that objective - and now, at last, that obstacle shall be removed.


	27. Convoy to Tilbury

Life at Hunsdon seems to be as it has always been; waking, praying, eating, studying, walking Pax in the garden…day in, day out.

To the one who lives that life, however, it could not be more different. Her ladies are dismissed and in the Tower, her Lords have taken flight, while two have been captured and even now face trial for their lives. Her Chaplain - despite his pretence at compliance with the vile reforms inflicted upon England - has been dismissed, and the man who has replaced him is a true heretic in thought, word and deed. Were it not for her need for succour from God's Holy Word, she would have nothing to do with him; so she endures his sermonising, and then spends the next hour upon her knees before the Sacrament, pleading with God for His forgiveness for her sin.

Mary has not heard the words 'Your Majesty' for nearly three weeks; none of her servants are anything less than courteous and attentive - but also no more. There is not one single soul to whom she can turn to confide her pain, disappointment and anger at the failure of her claim for the Crown: the speed with which all that she thought that she had built collapsed around her to nothingness, the discovery that the people had not risen as one at her call. Worst of all, the knowledge that the Concubine - that vile, wanton whore - has beaten her and stolen her realm. _Her_ realm!

The glass in her hand trembles, and she fights with herself not to fling it across the chamber in a sudden fit of rage. So many hopes and dreams had been tangled up in that fierce determination to claim that which was - _is_ \- rightfully hers. The belief that she was right - _is_ right.

"I am the true Queen of England." She hisses to herself, furiously, "I have been robbed of that which is mine by right of blood. I shall claim my crown - if I cannot do it now, then I shall try again. I _shall_!"

Setting the glass down, for fear that she might indeed destroy it, Mary fishes out the rosary that was once her mother's, and methodically works her way along the beads, " _Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae. Et in Iesum Christum, Filium eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine, passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad infernos, tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos, sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis, inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos. Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen_."

Then to the next, " _Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen._ "

And on, " _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen_."

Such is her mood that she meditates upon the sorrowful mysteries, reflecting upon the forbearance of pain and the pardoning of injuries - though the pardoning seems to be confined mostly to her parents for dying and leaving her in this hopeless situation. They are not to blame - it was their time and God called them home - but it is hard…so very, very hard…

Her meditation complete, she crosses herself, kisses the crucifix upon the rosary, and returns to a chair beside the fire. Not a moment too soon, it seems, as the women assigned to see to her personal needs are without and seeking to come in.

"My Lady," the elder woman, whose name she has not bothered to learn, curtseys, "We have received word that her Majesty the Queen Regent is to visit upon the morrow with the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal. If it please you, we shall prepare a bath for you, and set out some new gowns for your consideration."

Mary looks up at them, "Thank you. I think, however, that I shall remain in my mourning garments out of respect for my late parents."

The two women share an exasperated glance, but they cannot object, for she is a woman of noble blood, and they are not, "As you wish, my Lady." The woman sighs, "We shall, however, provide the gowns."

Of course they shall - it is likely that they shall be punished if they do not.

Mary ignores them, her attitude a clear suggestion of dismissal. They are inoffensive, and she has no argument with them upon any personal level - but nonetheless, they are from the household of That Woman, and she has no doubt that they report all that she says and does. Well - let them report _that._

Her act of defiance is small, yes; but it is satisfying to remind them that she is the Lady, and they are the servants, "I shall sup in an hour." She finishes.

"Yes, my Lady." The pair curtsey, and withdraw.

In spite of herself, Mary smiles at the thought of new gowns. While she has no intention of wearing them, she can still enjoy examining them, after all. With so few pleasures in her life now, she shall grasp all that she can.

* * *

Seated in a well appointed parlour, Anne waits for Mary to show herself. She is seated in a finely upholstered chair, her feet resting upon a matching footstool, while her Canopy of Estate is set above her, just to remind Mary that it is another head that wears the crown. Behind her stand Sussex, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich, all of whom are shuffling somewhat, as the lady has not yet deigned to appear, and they have been standing in the parlour for nearly a half hour.

"Where is the girl?" Sussex asks, mostly rhetorically, "Does she not appreciate that she is keeping the Queen's Representative waiting?"

"As she considers herself to be Queen, my Lord of Sussex," Anne reminds him, dryly, "It is of no surprise to me that she has taken it upon herself to show such poor manners."

"Her retinue shall also be most discomfited." Cromwell adds, blandly, "It is a four hour journey at least to Tilbury, and they hope to depart upon the evening tide."

Anne turns slightly, "Do you think it inappropriate that the Lady depart to meet her husband this very day? It is not appropriate for a wedded woman to remain in a realm other than that of the man to whom she is married."

He does not answer, but she can sense the disapproval, and sighs inwardly. Perhaps it does seem cruel to do such a thing as this - but the sooner the girl is abroad, and within a far-off Court, the safer England shall be from the disorder that she might inspire should she attempt to steal Elizabeth's crown again, "You think me spiteful, Mr Cromwell - and perhaps you are right to think so; but it is the duty of a high-born woman to marry, and she has been kept from that joyous state for far too long. She has desired a husband for as long as she has been of marriageable age - and it is appropriate that a woman of her standing should marry a King."

Not to mention the fact that, should the news be announced with too much time to spare before her departure, what is to stop Suffolk or Wiltshire attempting to wrest her from her retinue and steal her away?

The current Comptroller of the Household, an inoffensive man by the name of William Seton, appears in the open doorway, "Majesty, the Lady Mary."

He bows and steps aside, and Mary takes his place. True to her word, she is dressed in mourning, and her rosary is very much in evidence at her side. The hostility in her stance is vivid, marked by two splashes of red in her cheeks as she takes in the sight of her hated stepmother seated beneath a Canopy of Estate - a privilege that is reserved only for those who are Royal.

Her curtsey is perfunctory, and borders upon insolence, while she refuses - again - to address Anne with appropriate courtesy, "Madame."

Rather than rise to the provocation, Anne smiles with a warmth that she most certainly does not feel, "Lady Mary, I am come with the best of news. I am aware that you have, on many occasions, been promised to foreign courts as a bride in exchange for alliances that were subsequently abrogated, and the engagements denied. That is no longer the case."

Mary's expression changes, "You intend to wed me?"

Anne shakes her head, "It is no intention, Madame; it is fact. You have been married, by proxy, to a Prince of Europe - and thus you shall gain the crown that you so desire."

"My Crown is the Crown of England." Mary is growing tense as her suspicions are aroused, "You intend to cast me out of my Realm and bind me to some compliant lesser Prince?"

"I would not consider his Majesty King Gustav of Sweden to be a lesser prince, Madame. He has accepted you, and wedded you by proxy - no small feat for the illegitimate child of an invalid marriage, I assure you."

"Sweden…" Mary's voice is a whisper, though the tone of her voice suggests not so much Sweden as Hades.

"You shall sail to Gothenburg, whereupon you shall be escorted to Stockholm by a retinue of high-born women and a suitably armed guard to match your new estate as Sweden's new Queen. A trousseau has been assembled, and your escort is without. You shall depart in an hour to take ship from Tilbury."

Mary's eyes are widening in horror, "Now? I am to be dispatched into exile today?"

"You are now Sweden's Queen, Madame - it is essential that you are escorted there at the first opportunity in order to receive your Crown."

"No!" Mary's voice rises in anger, "I am Queen of _England_! You shall not remove me from my Realm - my Subjects shall never permit it!"

"Far from it." Anne reminds her, "They shall be joyful for you, for you have made a great match that shall bring a grand alliance to England, and improve the lives of all Englishmen as our prosperity increases."

"And I shall be permitted to practise my faith?"

"That shall be for your husband and master to determine." Anne advises, calmly. It is hard not to gloat - extracting such payment for the insults heaped upon her by the girl who stands before her and watches her grand fantasies crumble to dust. It seems pointless to advise her that her new husband is an ardent reformer who intends to eradicate the Popish religion from his borders - and she shall have to keep that blasted rosary very, very well hidden.

"Then I shall not go." Mary's expression is stubborn, "I shall not leave this house."

"That is not your choice, Madame," Anne's tone chills at her obstinacy, "Your husband is expecting you - thus you are obliged to depart to his Court. If I must have your ladies carry you to the litter, then I shall do so."

"A litter? I am not to ride?"

"It would not do for you to fall and injure yourself, Madame. You shall travel in an enclosed litter, and you shall leave within the hour. Each minute that you spend standing here being obstinate is a minute less for you to gather those possessions that you wish to take with you. Any items that are left behind shall not be packed up and sent after you, so I suggest that you make haste."

Mary's eyes are brimming, as she begins to appreciate that there is no means of escape from the fate that has been set out for her. No - no pity. Remember that pert insult…that insolence…

_She is twenty years old. She has endured the loss of a mother while still a child - and now, despite her womanhood, she is orphaned…who am I to treat her so?_

There is little point in offering kind words - she knows that they would flung back in her face, so instead she maintains that cold, stony façade and watches as Mary retreats.

"Say not a word, Mr Cromwell." Anne says, her voice very brittle, "Your comments shall do naught but reflect my own thoughts."

* * *

The garden reflects Anne's mood; dull, fading and lacking in the life that seemed so vibrant in the midst of summer. Her decision - her very actions - seemed so right in the planning. To bring that arrogant child back down from the heights of her presumption and show her the truth of her situation - she had dreamed of this…anticipated it.

So why does she now feel so appalled at herself?

There is nowhere to sit that shall not ruin her beautiful gown: all of the benches are damp and beaded with rainwater. So instead she paces along the gravel paths between the parterre beds, reliving the exchange with her stepdaughter, and wishing that she could go back and do it more gently.

"The entourage is prepared, Majesty."

She turns to see Cromwell is behind her, "Thank you."

He regards her, "It is a hard thing to be Royal, is it not?"

"Indeed so, Mr Cromwell." Anne sighs, turning to continue her pacing, "Walk with me."

He follows, but says nothing.

"I have been too harsh with her." She says, eventually, "I acted out of spite, and shattered a young woman's dream for her future. That it was a future to which she is not entitled is meaningless - she is young, and impulsive; and she was guided by poor counsel. To speak to her in such fashion seemed so satisfying when I anticipated it - but now…"

"Now you feel that it was unbecoming for one such as your Majesty." Cromwell finishes.

"More than merely unbecoming." Anne shakes her head, "It was unChristian; spiteful and cruel - I am a woman grown, she is barely more than a girl. Her rejection of my presence was only to be expected in the face of the circumstances that ended her mother's invalid marriage to my Lord - and I allowed it to dictate my actions towards her. The more I think upon it, the more I wonder if I have stored up trouble for myself in future years - for I know that my behaviour has not quelled her desire to claim the throne; but instead almost certainly inflamed it. Worse: if Mary can drive me to act so, then how shall I be when I must face an enemy of greater standing? There was a time when I thought myself the Queen of the World, and I became most disgracefully high-handed to all around me; but all I gained from my behaviour was enmity, and even as I stand here, I know that it still hovers about me like a dark, cold fog. I cannot continue to be so - for if I am, then my child shall be the one from whom the payment is demanded."

"Forgive me for speaking frankly, Majesty," Cromwell's expression is rather tentative, "I think that you are correct in your belief that Mary shall not depart from here without a determination to return; but I wonder if your words were born from an equal determination to protect her Majesty the Queen?"

Anne is silent; but she nods.

"There is little that we can do to retrieve this outcome, Majesty." He sighs, as their stroll takes them from the walled garden out into the wider park, "I think, alas, that there would have been no solution that would end well for all parties - for the foundations were laid long ago, and in another time. All that we can do is look to the future, and be ready."

"And Elizabeth shall bear the burden of it." she repeats, tiredly.

"We are all her protectors, Majesty," He reminds her, "I swore to you, and to her, that I would serve with absolute loyalty - as I served your late liege Lord. Should Mary find some means to act against us, then we shall meet it as one - Queen, Regent and Council."

"Is that a promise?" she turns, a ghost of a smile twitching at her lips.

"Another one?" he looks at her, returning that smile, "If you wish me to set my hand upon the scripture and swear, then I shall do so."

For a moment, she is tempted to link arms with him, as she once did with her father - but then remembers that she cannot. No matter how their former friendship has recovered and rekindled, he is not her father, and she is under no illusions as to how such a move shall be viewed by others. Can they not see that he is of no interest to her as anything other than a friend and councillor?

Then she remembers Mary's attitude to her - that of a common whore. No. They could not.

"I have been a fool." She says, quietly, "I thought it to be an easy thing - consider evidence, consider advice, and make a decision. But that is not enough - I must also live with the outcome of that decision; and the realisation that the decision might have turned out to be wrong."

Cromwell nods, "And to appreciate that others may not respond to your decision as you expect."

"In which case, I think we should pay more chess, Mr Cromwell." She says, smiling at him again, "For it seems that I still have much to learn."

"That you recognise the need to do so proves to me that you can do so." He replies, "Much as I dislike to speak ill of those who are passed - it was a lesson that your late husband proved unable to appreciate, much less learn. He could not accept that people would not always respond to his actions as he expected - and reacted with temper and violence."

"I shall endeavour to do otherwise." Anne advises him, "Though I am not blind to my own temper, I assure you." She pauses, and looks at his mildly sceptical expression, "Are you keen to test it?" she chuckles.

"I think not, Majesty."

Again, she wishes she could link arms with him, "Come. I fear that my bridges are burned with the lady Mary, but nonetheless, I shall do what I can to mitigate the spite that I showed in the house. Let us see her off."

He nods, "Yes, Majesty."

* * *

Rich is shuffling and fidgeting again, wringing his hands nervously as he waits alongside the travelling litter. Despite their determination to ensure that none would intervene in what is to come, the knowledge that Suffolk and Wiltshire are still at large, and likely planning to effect some sort of misguided rescue, lurks in his uneasy mind, and even now he looks back and forth, expecting a horde of mercenaries to thunder across the park towards their column. That he is to be at its head with Sussex does nothing to ease his nerves.

_You are a pathetic, cowardly weasel,_ he admonishes himself, crossly. He knows that others consider him so - despite it being the strategy that has kept his head upon his shoulders when others of higher principles have been sent to their deaths - but it is unpleasant to recognise it for himself. Even as he stands and frets, he knows that Sussex is looking at him with mild distaste. Once, it would have mattered to him not a jot - but now: now that he has earned the trust of others to a degree formerly unknown to him, that dislike makes him uncomfortable. Perhaps it is jealousy - for he moves in the Regent's own inner circle while Sussex does not - but that seems unlikely; for Sussex shares the Regent's trust. No - it is dislike, and he has earned it.

A movement at the front of the house catches his attention, "My lord - she is coming."

Sussex turns, and nods, "Remain here. I shall escort her."

He moves to approach, but then stops as he sees the Regent and the Lord Treasurer approaching, clearly intending to do so themselves.

Standing in the autumn sunlight, dressed in black, in defiance of her circumstances, Mary watches as the Concubine and her chief adviser approach.

"Have you come to ensure that I do not flee, Madame?" she asks, her tone brittle. There are still unshed tears inside her that she refuses to allow to escape.

Anne shakes her head, "No, my Lady. I have instead come to apologise for my spite. That this must happen is inevitable, but to behave as I have done is unbecoming, and for that I am sorry. Equally, I do not do so in expectation of forgiveness, or as a pretence to salve my conscience. I do not regret my actions - but I do regret the manner in which I brought this news to you."

She is not surprised to be rewarded with a glare, but Mary does not answer. What, after all, is there to say? It is highly likely that the girl does not believe the comment about salving her conscience; but all she can do is offer her intention, and allow it to be interpreted as Mary wishes.

"If that is all, Madame," she says, still very stiff, "Then I shall depart. I believe that my…escort…intends to catch this evening's tide."

She might say 'escort', but her tone unmistakably says 'prison guards'.

"Mr Cromwell." Again, Anne does not rise to the implied insult, "Please escort the lady to her litter."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell nods his head respectfully to the Regent, and then does likewise to Mary, "My Lady - if you please."

It is not a long walk, but their footsteps upon the gravel are sufficient to conceal her words, "I shall come back." She says, firmly, "Do not think that this is at an end. God shall deliver me from my trials and restore my Realm to me."

"Indeed, my Lady." Cromwell agrees, "I have no doubt that God wishes to deliver you from your trials - but do not assume that His will is your will. It may be that you shall find happiness in Sweden - though I know that a high-born woman is obliged to seek joy in circumstances that she finds most grievous."

"Like my mother."

"Perhaps, yes." He agrees, "Do not for a moment think that I hated her - for she was gracious, wise and a fine woman. Her only fault - if it be called so - was to believe that all men shared her principles and faith, and to assume that all would deal with her as she dealt with them."

"And you think me the same." Mary muses, "But then you are a reformer and heretic. Do not for a moment think that I shall abandon my faith - for I shall not. I _will_ not. Nor shall I abandon my claim to my Realm."

"I ask nothing, Madame; but I do advise. Faith and principle are together admirable - but unbending faith and principle are equally foolish and childish. The tree that cannot bend shall eventually break, and a broken tree can do naught but decay and die."

"That is your opinion. My faith is all that has sustained me in the storms of cruelty inflicted upon me by that woman - either by her own hand, or by the hands of others. Thus it shall sustain me in a court that is - I am given to understand - a nest of heresy."

They reach the litter, and Cromwell pauses beside the step set for Mary to enter it, "Your ladies shall not be retained in the Tower any longer. Upon the solemnisation of your nuptials, they shall be released and permitted to return to their homes with their goods, chattels and lands."

"And Mr Seymour?"

"He shall be executed at the end of this week upon Tower Hill - though her Majesty the Regent has decreed that a suitable portion of his possessions, lands and holdings shall be passed to his sister, so that she can make a decent marriage outside the Court. The rest of the Seymour estate shall be inherited by the younger son."

"I shall pray for him as a martyr."

Cromwell does not answer, but instead extends his arm to aid her as she enters the litter. She is entitled to believe what she wishes. Her will has ever been absolutely unbending, and thus she sees a treacherous act against England solely in religious terms. Does she know that Seymour was no papist? He was known to have reformist tracts and an English bible in his home, and - just as Wiltshire had - turned his coat in hopes of advancement in a Marian court. Sooner or later, she would have discovered that, and sent him to the stake for a heretic. Ah well - what she does not know shall not hurt her.

As soon as she is settled within the litter, he bows his head again, and pulls back, allowing the leather flaps to be lowered. The weather is drawing in, and that is ample excuse to conceal her from those who might wonder who is travelling through their midst.

"Is all ready?" Sussex asks, brusquely.

Cromwell nods, "Be on your way, my Lord. Her Majesty shall remain here tonight with her ladies, and we shall return to London upon the morrow."

"Good. We must make haste if we are not to lose the tide to that wretched girl's fussing." Sussex turns to see that Rich is already in the saddle, "God above, why do you give that Rat even the time of day?"

"Because he is a very capable Rat, my Lord - and one should never ignore capability. Besides, he is remarkably good company if one looks beyond his previous acts."

"Speak for yourself, Mr Cromwell. I see only a treacherous rodent - but the Regent trusts him, so I shall accept his presence with good grace."

He smiles, "See the Lady into the care of my Lord of Southampton, my Lord. Then, perhaps, her Majesty shall be free to rule without the interference of traitors."

Sussex laughs, then turns and mounts up, "We shall return to Court anon once our delivery is done, sir." He urges his horse forward, and the column sets off behind him.

Still standing in the Porch, as a light drizzle begins to mist the air, Anne watches the convoy depart. As long as Mary is married in Sweden, she shall be no threat to England. Best, then, to pray for a long life for the Swedish King.

* * *

It is hard not to be smug. Savouring a glass of sack, Norfolk looks out of the leaded windows of his parlour, and ignores the two men seated across from him.

Suffolk and Wiltshire arrived two days ago, bedraggled and looking like vagabonds. The prices upon their heads are significant, and even in a prosperous realm, only a fool ignores the opportunity to make a fast fortune; so they have been obliged to give up their horses, fine garments and even the higher value coins in their scrips in order to escape notice. Both were, naturally, in dire need of a bath when they arrived, and are now in borrowed garments.

"So. She failed."

Neither man answers; though the Duke knows that, if he were to look behind him, he would see that Wiltshire is glowering and grasping the pommels of the chair arms so tightly that his knuckles are white. The man is tiresomely obvious in his bad temper.

"Do you know where she is now?" Finally Norfolk turns, and sees that he is right. Suffolk, on the other hand, is merely silent. He is not surprised that neither man appears to know. Not that he knows, either.

"Thus she is in the hands of the whore - and you do not know where she is kept. Perhaps she is in the Tower - even now awaiting the block?"

"Her subjects would never permit such a thing." Suffolk says, quietly, "Even the Concubine knows that."

"And you can be sure of it, given that her 'subjects' failed to rise when she called them to arms? Why would they wish to throw all into chaos when their bellies are full or their meagre wages pay for sufficient quantities of victuals upon which to live? We have emerged from years of war over who shall wear the crown, and memories of those days are long. Men do not care who sits upon a throne when their lives are comfortable and peaceable - the girl should have appreciated that her time is done and accepted a suitable husband."

Suffolk snorts, and shakes his head, "She is the daughter of the King and Queen - the crown is hers. Why would she allow a usurper to steal it from her?"

"She is a child with no political sense and an utter failure to see the benefits of pragmatism. Did the Emperor promise her an army? Money? Did the Pope issue a Bull commanding all Englishmen to follow her into London and cast the heretics into the river?"

Silence.

"She should have stayed where she was, and waited. A failed harvest or a costly war with a foreign power would have given her England upon a golden platter - but she did not wait. Now she pays for that stupidity with incarceration - whether it be in one of the Royal fortresses, or the Tower - and who shall rise to rescue her from that? Furthermore, what use are either of you to her after this? Both of you are fugitives with prices upon your heads! The only safety for you now is to flee England - both of you."

"And see my lands taken by that whore?" Suffolk looks enraged, "What of my children?"

" _Now_ you think of your progeny?" Norfolk growls, "It matters not whether you are here in England, or languishing in whatever country in Europe shall have you - the Acts of Attainder are doubtless being discussed by the burghers of Parliament even now! Seymour is certainly for the block - and Christ alone knows what shall become of his foolish sister!"

Again, there is silence, and Norfolk glares at them with scorn, "If Mary is to win back this realm, then it shall not be today, or tomorrow. I, however, am tired of this exile from the centre of power, and thus I shall throw in my lot with her as it is clear that your daughter shall not welcome me back. Therefore, the two of you shall hurl yourselves upon the mercy of whatever Court still thinks that Mary has any prospect of regaining England for the Pope, and seek to raise funds and mercenaries to support her. I shall remain in England and advise you of matters here. Go - take ship from a lesser port where spies are less likely to be concealed. Assuming that you are able to find someone who shall aid you, advise me of that when you are settled, and we shall think again."

Neither man speaks as they rise from their chairs, bow and depart. Wiltshire has said nothing throughout - but Norfolk can see that his rage is trapped within: a maelstrom that shall doubtless explode upon some unfortunate later today. Not that he cares of course; the two of them have been fools, and it is now up to a wiser head to find a way for them to regain all that they have lost.

Seating himself, he turns as his chief Steward enters the study, "My Lord, I have received word of an announcement from Court."

"Go on."

"The Queen Regent is pleased to announce that the Lady Mary has married King Gustav of Sweden, and is shortly to depart for Gothenburg by ship to join her husband and formally solemnise their marriage."

Norfolk looks up, his expression changing from one of satisfaction to consternation. Presented as a marriage it might be; but it is, in truth, exile. What use is there in gathering an army to free her and bring her to London if she is no longer in England? Damnation! God's Blood! In their short-sighted determination to grasp back whatever power they could, Suffolk and Wiltshire have not only lost her the Crown, they have given the Regent the precise excuse she needed to spirit the girl out of England once and for all.

And, with it, his last hope of regaining a place at Court for himself.

* * *

No matter how determined people are to hurry, a horse litter can only go at a plod to avoid severe discomfort for the occupant within, and thus they move at a slower pace than Sussex would like.

All of the escort are on horseback, so at least it is not as slow as it could have been had they been accompanied by infantry; nonetheless, Rich can see that his colleague is fidgeting in his frustration at the time that they are taking to make any forward progress. To his mind, they shall either meet the tide, or miss it; his greater concern is that people might attempt to wrest away their passenger, despite their anonymity. Wealthy people travel so, and they have no banners on display to identify the occupant of the litter, so why anyone would believe that the Lady Mary is within he could not say - but nonetheless, his tension is over the possibility of being waylaid, not the possibility of missing the tide.

The route to Tilbury is well travelled, and few pay them any mind - caravans of one sort or another travel this way all the time, and thus the peasants in the fields look up briefly, and then continue with their work. Despite their high positions at Court, none of the people they pass would likely know the identity of either man at the head of the column, and assumes them to be just high-ranking retainers for whoever is in the litter. Equally, the royal guards are not dressed in the scarlet doublets that they would wear while accompanying the Queen or the Regent, so they resemble just a retinue of someone wealthy. Once again embarrassed at his unwarranted nerves, he keeps his eyes to the front and tries to think of something he can say to Sussex that might fuel a conversation.

Behind them, in the litter, Mary has her rosary out again. Though she is not on her knees, she works her way along the beads, reciting each prayer as she moves between decades, and meditating upon the mysteries of light; gratitude for faith, fidelity to God, a desire for holiness and, perhaps most of all, spiritual courage. She knows little of Sweden - but its northern location suggests to her that it shall be a place that has embraced the vile Lutheran heresy, and she shall face even greater pressure to abjure her faith there than she ever did in England.

"I shall not." She mutters, as she completes _O Holy Queen_ and sets the rosary down for the third time, "I shall not abandon my faith; the faith of my mother. The _true_ faith. I shall withstand this test of my faith - and lead these lost sheep back to God. Then I shall claim England for God. It is not over. It is _not_."

Restlessly, she lifts the rosary again, crosses herself and speaks the creed. This time she shall meditate upon the Glorious mysteries: Faith, hope and perseverance.

She is halfway through the third mystery when she is startled by the sudden halt of the litter. The drowsy swaying has faded from her consciousness in her determined prayers, and it is only now that it stops that she is aware of its absence. What is happening? They cannot be at Tilbury yet…

The flap is drawn back, and she finds herself looking upon the face of one of the women assigned to her by the Concubine, "My Lady, we have reached an inn. Do you require refreshment, or other comforts?"

Were it not for a need to visit the garderobe, she would ignore the woman, but needs must, "I should appreciate privacy for matters of a personal nature, Madame." She admits.

"Of course, my Lady." The woman withdraws briefly, and she can hear the scuffling as a step is set down alongside the litter. The face that looks in is that of her Chamberlain, rather than either Sussex or that commoner Rich, and she is relieved. Regardless of his loyalties, he is a familiar face, and she takes his hand and clambers awkwardly out into the open air.

There is no clue as to her whereabouts - for the inn is situated some distance from any town, and is intended to serve the needs of drovers and merchants heading to the port. All that surrounds her other than the column of guards is thick forest. No, there is no one here to aid her. Do her friends and supporters even know where she is?

"This way Madame." The man is courteous, but it is clear that she is expected to be quick about it. As she approaches the inn with her woman at her side, several of the serving staff are emerging with pots of ale for the men who are accompanying her - but they pay her no mind. She is not familiar in these parts, and thus they do not realise that she is the daughter of the King, being removed from her Realm…

Emerging from the inn, entirely more comfortable but no happier, Mary can see that Rich has now dismounted and is awaiting her, a woman with a tray of victuals at his side, "Madame, in case you are hungry."

He at least has the grace to be courteous. Sussex is still astride his horse and looking at her as though she is a contagion in a frock.

She is tempted to refuse - but then thinks again. Perhaps, if she eats, she might delay long enough to miss the tide, and thus have more time for those who would aid her to do so…

"Yes, thank you Sir. I would be pleased to." She nods her head, and smiles politely, only for the smile to freeze upon her face as Rich directs the woman to set the tray into the litter. She is clearly intended to consume the victuals while on the move.

"We shall move at a slower pace so that nothing is spilled Madame."

It is hard not to shout at him - but his expression is still reasonable, and she is certain that an angry response shall only reflect poorly upon her. Sighing, she nods, "Thank you."

He bows, and offers his arm to hand her back into the litter. It is hard not to feel defeated, all of her pride screams at her not to accept what is happening - but Mr Cromwell's advice remains with her: be pragmatic. Bend with the storm, do not break…

She is barely seated and settled before they move off again, though their pace is indeed slightly less. In obedience to her growling stomach, Mary turns and examines the victuals upon the tray: tender slices from a leg of roasted mutton dressed in a thick, herb-rich gravy, a small loaf of fine white bread still warm from its baking, and small flask in which she finds a claret of surprising quality. Ignoring it shall likely give the men cause to think her to be sulking, so she tears away a strip of the bread to dip into the gravy.

The combination of a meal, and the gentle sway of the litter, is soporific; and, as the column draws to a halt, this time at the dockside, Mary's woman is obliged to gently wake her from sleep, "Madame, we have arrived."

Startled, Mary shifts on the cushions, and tries to take in the words, almost refusing to believe them. The flap shifts again, and she sees Southampton alongside the woman, his expression friendly, "Welcome to your vessel, your Majesty. This is the _Havshäxa._ " She notes that he requires two attempts to pronounce the word, "She shall see you safely to Gothenburg, whereupon we shall travel overland to Stockholm. Your new ladies await you in your cabin - they have all been learning English apace on the journey here, and they are most keen to greet you."

_Be pragmatic. Be pragmatic. Be pragmatic_. Pale, nervous, Mary permits her woman to guide her out of the litter, clutching her rosary in her free hand. Emerging into the soft, evening light, she watches as the two small coffers that contain only her most precious possessions are carried aboard a ship from which gaily coloured pennons flutter in a stiff marine breeze that brings the tang of the sea to her nose.

"You shall accompany me, my Lord?" she asks. That same breeze is carrying the voices of the sailors, and they are not speaking English.

Southampton smiles at her again, a paternal smile, for he can hear the fearful quaver in her voice, "Yes, your Majesty."

How strange to be called so - for she is indeed now a Queen; but not the Queen of England…

"Come, Majesty. It is time to board - the Captain is a good man, but he is keen to depart, for the tide shall shortly turn."

Helplessly, Mary turns to look back at the town that she has not seen until this moment. Her last sight of England…

No. It is not. She _will_ come back. England shall have her true Queen. She _shall_ …

Slowly, she stands up more straight, ramrod stiff, and crosses the gangplank to board a vessel surrounded by people who cannot speak English; but she does not make her way to the cabin, instead standing at the rail to watch as the lines are cast off, and the carrack is pulled away from the dockside by two large row-boats.

Astride his horse, Rich sighs, "And so it is done."

"Indeed it is." Sussex agrees, "God-willing, the wretched girl shall never set foot upon these shores again.Instead, she shall give Sweden lots of heirs, and have the good grace to die there."

Rich shrugs, and the two men watch as the wind fills the sails of the carrack whose name neither of them remember. Slowly, the vessel moves out into the wider stretch of the estuary, sailing off into the growing darkness until it is lost to sight.

And, all the while, that lone figure remains at the rail, watching as her home slips away from her forever.


	28. Unwanted Rumours

PART FOUR

**DIPLOMAT**

* * *

Chapter 28

_Unwanted Rumours_

* * *

**_18 April, 1538_ **

Archbishop Cranmer stands at the gates of the Chapel Royal, "Good people! Welcome, and thank you for your patience. Her Majesty the Queen Regent shall be here shortly, on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth."

Beyond the gates, a small crowd of people are standing, their garments ragged, and their faces eager - though their whisperings suggest to the Archbishop that their keenness is almost as much to meet the woman who shall shortly emerge, as to receive the coins that she and her ladies shall provide. The long work to create that aura of the 'Mother of the Realm' has truly borne fruit.

It has taken two years, admittedly; two years of progresses, Acts of Parliament for the relief of the poor, the establishment of petty schools and grammar schools for young boys, and, to his dismay, the relaxation of his favoured project: the continued eradication of popish superstition from the English Church. At least they have succeeded in repealing the heresy laws, and thus no one shall be bound to a stake for being a reformer any longer.

Mr Cromwell is not overly pleased either; but he keeps his counsel, so Cranmer does likewise, and smiles at the gathered paupers before standing aside to allow the Regent to pass.

As always upon Maundy Thursday, she is dressed soberly, but well, in black and gold. Her expression is kindly, for she has met many paupers during the last two years of progresses and visits to infirmaries as she has worked to rehabilitate her damaged reputation amongst the people of England. At first, it was an uncomfortable experience, for she has lived a sheltered existence for much of her life; but gradually, her discomfort began to change to anger at her complacency. The faces of the paupers were once hostile, but now they are keen to see her, and to see what largesse she shall dispense.

This morning, she smiles warmly, and dispenses the Maundy coins to those who have come. Behind her, twelve of her ladies also dispense coins, while Mr Cranmer, Mr Cromwell and Lord Sussex stand within the porch and watch benignly. As she did that first time, when Elizabeth was still in her womb, she kneels before an elderly man who is seated upon a stool, and proceeds to wash his gnarled, calloused feet. At one time, a Queen was only permitted to do so for women; but then there was a King who would serve men. Now, however, there is only a Queen, so men and women are allowed to enter her presence.

"Thank you, your Majesty." His voice is also gnarled and calloused.

"It is my honour, sir." She advises him, looking up from the basin, "For all my grand estate, I am but a servant to my Subjects."

She recalls saying that to an old woman two years back, only to receive a snort of scorn; but that was before she followed the advice of her closest councillors and worked to become that strangely maternal creature that has won a change of heart.

"God bless you, Ma'am."

"Thank you." She smiles, carefully wiping a cloth over his instep, "If it please you, I shall ask a physician to look at this wound upon your foot." She turns to Cranmer, "Your Grace - might I trouble you for some wine or spirits, please?"

Cranmer looks most bemused, but turns and disappears back into the chapel, before returning with a small flask of communion wine that has not yet been blessed for use, and handing it to Jane Rochford, who passes it to Anne.

It is an angry looking, swollen lesion that can only have come from an infected cut; and it must cause the man some pain - though he has made no mention of it, and seems unwilling to complain of it. Nor does he flinch as she carefully rinses it with the wine, and dabs it dry with a clean cloth.

Cromwell steps out to join her, "Majesty, I shall send for Doctor Wendy if you require it - perhaps this gentleman might wish to be treated at an infirmary? I can arrange for him to be taken there in comfort, rather than oblige him to walk there himself."

Anne looks up at him, and smiles, then turns back to the man, "If that is your wish?"

"You would do that for me, Ma'am?" he seems astounded that someone would care even remotely about his pain. How long has it been since anyone has? Now that he has spoken more than a few words, she realises that he sounds educated; a man who has clearly fallen upon the hardest of hard times. Did not Mr Cromwell once tell her that the illness of the breadwinner can cast an entire family into starvation? So much to learn about the realities of the lives of her subjects. Even now.

"What is your name, Sir?" Anne has not noticed that the ceremony is over, and the other supplicants have departed.

"Matthew Marshall, Majesty." He says, "I was, long ago, a scholar who tutored young men in their letters; but my sight failed - and, with it, my income. My only relief is that I did not take a family into penury with me."

She looks at him again, and sees that his eyes have a milky opaqueness that has closed in his world almost to nothing. God have mercy - how can life be so precarious?

Her eyes are brimming with tears as Cromwell crouches alongside her, "Allow me to arrange everything, Majesty. I shall ensure Mr Marshall is cared for - as per your instructions."

Dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, she nods, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell. Ensure that he is well taken care of."

"I shall do so." He says, quietly, "I shall also see if there is a bed for him in an almshouse."

Jane and Madge step forth to help Anne back to her feet, and she smiles at the man before her, "Thank you, sir. Whatever service that I can do for you shall be nothing in comparison to the lesson that you have taught me this day."

"God's blessings be upon you, Majesty." His expression is one of near wonder - he had come here in hopes of alms, but has received far, far more.

Watching her depart, Cromwell smiles to himself. She might not know it; but, in her sincere act of charity and kindness, she has created a story that shall be told beyond these walls, and that shall further cement the idea that she is not the King's Whore, but instead that ephemeral 'Mother of the Realm'.

And again, as he has been almost every day these two years past, he is proud of her as though she were his own daughter.

* * *

Anne is resting in a chair in her Privy Chamber when Cromwell arrives from his offices, papers in hand. Today has been a pleasure, riding in the great park of St James with her daughter, as Elizabeth has become remarkably skilled in the saddle - though it is still far too soon for the child to be with her at the hunt.

Jane is seated at the muselar again, and her favourite courant is trickling from her skilled fingers, while Margery, Nan and one of her newer ladies, a young woman from Hertfordshire called Caroline, sit together and carefully work at a large frame that shall contain an elaborate tapestry once they are done. Elizabeth is also resting in her chambers, and shall join them later on to watch as they play card games, to learn how they are played.

"What have you brought me?" she asks, intrigued. There has been no meeting of the Council today, so she has not seen any papers.

"It is a letter from the King of France, Majesty." Cromwell advises, "He expresses his pleasure at our continued peaceful relations, and proposes that her Majesty the Queen might consider the Dauphin as a husband to cement a continued alliance."

"Does he, indeed?" Anne smiles, a little sardonically, "So he finds her acceptable now that she is a Queen; when, before, he rejected her and claimed her to be a bastard."

"Indeed, Majesty." Cromwell replies, with that blandness that suggests he views the situation in much the same fashion. He remembers that moment when Henry discovered that Elizabeth was considered to be an inappropriate match for a royal heir, given the dissenting views over her birth: in his anger, his language had been appallingly intemperate, and a steward had been left with a bruised ear from a wildly flung fist that had inadvertently struck him as Henry vented his fury almost blindly. Then, of course, Elizabeth was a poor prize for a Dauphin; but now she is Queen, and her value has risen to far greater heights.

"I shall bear his proposal in mind - though her age precludes any marriage contract. I shall not bind her to a foreign child at so young an age. My Lord did that with his first child - dangled her before the princes of Europe as a bauble to be plucked in return for treaties; only to abrogate such treaties if another, more preferable offer was made by another party. I will have none of that for my Elizabeth. She is Queen - such behaviour is beneath her dignity."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell bows again, and then pauses, looking slightly awkward.

"What is it?"

"Er…" he seems to be struggling to find words, "Perhaps I might speak to you confidentially, Majesty?"

She frowns. He would not do so if the matter were trivial, "Ladies, forgive me, I must ask to speak to Mr Cromwell in private." She turns and looks back at him, flicking her eyes towards Jane. Cromwell nods. They have worked together long enough now to read one another's slightest gestures as though they were spoken words.

"Lady Rochford, a moment. I should appreciate a glass of _eau de vie_."

"Yes, Majesty." She knows that she is being given a pretext to remain, and crosses to the cupboard where Anne's liqueurs and bitters are kept.

"So, Mr Cromwell. What is this matter that is so secret that my ladies are not permitted to hear it?" She asks, sipping at the small glass of spirits.

"It is Mr Smeaton, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "Perhaps we should have dispensed with his services when first we noted his behaviour - but we did not. It seems that he has begun to abandon discretion; for it is spoken about the lower orders of the Court that he has prevailed upon a young Gentleman with a talent for drawing to provide him with a portrait of a woman of whom he is enamoured."

She sags in the chair slightly, "I suspect I shall not need to enquire as to the identity of this woman."

Cromwell shakes his head.

"Do people think that his feelings are reciprocated?"

"At this time, it is impossible to say." He admits, "Mr Smeaton has not been in the Lady's company with less than ten people present at any time - but he is spending beyond his means, I fear - for his jewels are richer than one would expect even for a man granted such largesse by his late Majesty; and he has been seen at least once in garments of crimson."

"He is a commoner - how is it that he thinks himself fit to dress like a Lord?" Jane asks, shocked, "Surely he has not convinced himself that he is of such high estate?"

"Again, it is impossible to say." Cromwell sighs, "Though, I fear to dispense with his services now shall fuel gossip rather than curtail it. I think it best that we allow him to be censured for his failure to comply with the demands of the Sumptuary Laws - and that he receive a fine of sufficient measure to cause him to think twice about flouting them again. Perhaps a short banishment from Court shall also concentrate his mind upon his true rank."

"I shall see to it, Majesty."

"Then go to, Mr Cromwell. The sooner Mr Smeaton is reminded that he is naught but a commoner, the better. I think a decree reminding all at Court of their obligations in terms of apparel would not go amiss. I have not seen any others who have been so remiss in such matters - but all shall know why the decree has been issued, shall they not?"

He smiles, "In this ant's nest, Majesty? It shall be known in less than an hour."

She returns his smile, "Then let it be known, Mr Cromwell."

* * *

Rich looks up from his desk, "What are we to do?"

Cromwell sits down opposite, "Use the sumptuary laws, Mr Rich. It shall serve us better than to dismiss the fool. He has been permitted to ignore those requirements for too long, and it would not do for others to follow his example, would it?"

Rich smirks, "Indeed, it would not." The fact that he is the Lord Privy Seal permits him to wear garments of a higher station than a mere Gentleman would be allowed - and he is not shy to do so. But then, neither is Cromwell. While the Lord Treasurer dresses soberly, he carries his status in the cut of the garments, and their fabrics - all of which are of a type that would be forbidden to him as a commoner of base-birth, "When the musician holds one of the Offices of State, then he can dress in that grotesquely meretricious fashion."

"Her Majesty has also decreed that he be temporarily excluded from Court for his presumptuous behaviour," Cromwell continues, reading through his notes, "I am minded to take that task upon myself, though I would not be above allowing you the pleasure of witnessing the puncturing of his self-regard."

"I should be delighted - and, I fear, a most evil man." Rich laughs, "It is most unbecoming to find amusement in the discomfiture of another - but it is truly satisfying."

"Ah yes - but this man warrants such discomfiture." Cromwell smiles back, "He has become far too impressed with his importance, and it is time to learn, I think, that the favour granted him by the King does not translate into equal regard by the Regent."

"Then lead on, my Lord Treasurer, and I shall follow and look sour."

The pair have become something of a partnership over the last two years - though their friendship is still uncertain and brittle - and none remark as they walk together through the corridors in search of Smeaton. Their conversation is still confined largely to matters of their work, for their interests are not entirely the same, but they are each aware of the other's thought processes to a remarkable degree as a result of it.

Smeaton is in his quarters - a small chamber of lesser note well away from those of higher state - plucking at his lute, and scribbling notes upon a sheet of rough paper. To Cromwell, it is apparent that he is composing something, and he wonders, idly, whether it is intended to be dedicated to his unrequited amour.

The chamber itself is in some disarray, with garments, scarves, stockings and all manner of fripperies scattered hither and thither as though selected, then discarded in disgust. Clearly he is keen to ensure that whatever he wears this evening shall be at least moderately tasteful - though still far too ostentatious for a man of his rank.

He looks up, startled to see that two men have walked into his chamber unannounced. Not that he can complain given that he left the door open, "Sirs? How can I be of service?"

"A new ballad, Mr Smeaton?" Cromwell asks, feigning interest.

"Yes indeed, Mr Cromwell." He smiles, pleased, "It is a poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt - I am setting it to music."

"At his behest, I presume?"

"With his consent, I assure you." Smeaton lifts the paper and holds it out, "I do not steal the work of others."

Rich raises his eyebrows slightly. While he has no skill for instruments - only his singing voice - he can read what is scribbled upon the page, and the words set beneath the notes are unnerving, to say the least.

_And wilt thou leave me thus?_

_Say nay, say nay, for shame,_

_To save thee from the blame_

_Of all my grief and grame;_

_And wilt thou leave me thus?_

_Say nay, say nay!_

Surely the man cannot be such a fool as to perform this in the presence of the Regent? Is he mad? He is all but accusing her of being a feckless lover! Like Cromwell, he is aware of that undercurrent of gossip that accuses Smeaton of harbouring amorous feelings towards the Regent - though he is yet to hear of further comments that accuse her of reciprocating - but this? All would hear the words, and mark them.

Beside him, however, Cromwell remains impassive, as though he has not read the paper, "I fear, Mr Smeaton, that your ballad shall have to wait. It has come to her Majesty's attention that observance of the sumptuary laws has become somewhat lax of late, and it is her intention that this laxity must cease. Consequently, she has decreed that all at Court must remind themselves of the manner of dress that they are entitled to wear - and abide by it. Our greatest concern is that the most flagrant behaviour in contravention of those laws is committed here - and thus her Majesty is concerned that an example must be made. You shall therefore be required to set aside all garments and jewels that are not appropriate for a man of your rank, and pay a fine of ten pounds before the end of this month. Furthermore, you are required to remove yourself from Court for the period of six months, during which time you may find it worth your while to re-acquaint yourself with the mode of dress that is permitted to you."

Standing alongside his colleague, Rich is hard put not to smirk as Smeaton's expression crumples, "She wishes me gone?"

"Temporarily." Cromwell counters.

"Or is it _you_ who wishes me gone?" the young man asks, his tone suddenly accusatory.

"I have no reason to desire you to be present, or absent." Cromwell advises, boredly, "You are a court musician - and as such you have your purpose. Whether you are here or not is of no interest to me - I am merely the instrument of her Majesty's will."

"I shall not go!" Smeaton declares, "I am a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber - it is not for you to banish me!"

"I am not banishing you. Your exclusion is temporary, and was ordered by the Queen Regent." Again, he keeps his voice absolutely neutral and disinterested, "If you decide not to leave, you shall be escorted out under guard. I advise you to take time to gather some possessions and make arrangements to find accommodation outside the Palace."

It is clear that the position is non-negotiable, and Smeaton's anger falters. To the embarrassment of both Councillors, his eyes start to fill with tears, and he begins to blubber pathetically, clutching at the paper that contains the poem.

"For God's sake, man," Rich tries - and largely fails - to keep the scorn from his voice, "are you a child? Gather your possessions and make haste! You have been given the Regent's decree - act upon it!"

Cromwell remains silent. It is easier for the Lord Privy Seal to show temper, for he spends far less time with the Regent, and thus cannot be accused of untoward behaviour with her. He, on the other hand, is in her company every day; and, while no rumours are circulating at this time, he knows well that a single unguarded comment can set all manner of false hares running across the parkland.

"You have two hours to quit the palace." Cromwell advises, coldly, "You shall not be admitted back into the palace - wherever the Court may be - until the first day of Advent. Any possessions that you leave behind shall be placed in storage in anticipation of your return." Anything to get him out of here as quickly as possible. He shall even pay for that storage himself if he must; this is becoming deeply embarrassing.

With nothing more to add, the pair hastily retreat, entrusting a nearby Steward to persuade the weeping lutenist to comply with the Regent's instruction.

As they return to their desks, Rich turns to Cromwell, who is still rather shocked at Smeaton's behaviour, "Well." He muses, mostly to himself, "That was awkward."

* * *

Anne looks up from the chessboard, "He shed tears?"

"Blubbered like a babe robbed of his sweetmeats, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I have rarely felt so embarrassed to share a chamber with another soul as I did today."

She returns her gaze to the chessmen, "That is remarkably strange. It seems that he was indeed most enamoured, was he not?"

"He was setting a work by Sir Thomas Wyatt to music when we came upon him." Cromwell continues, as she reaches for a pawn, "The poem was 'And Wilt thou Leave me thus?'"

Her face reddens, " _Most_ enamoured."

"I think we did not act a moment too soon. I have advised him that he must not show his face in any of your palaces again until the first day of Advent - though that banishment was framed as retribution for his blatant disregard of the sumptuary laws. I do not think that he has appreciated that his childish behaviour has been noted."

She watches as he takes his turn to peruse the board, "In that case, we shall allow the Court to let him slip from their minds, and quietly find some other family that shall take him. For all his foolish behaviour, he is a most talented musician, and I have no doubt that a noble house should delight to have his services."

"I have heard news from Sweden." He continues, as the game progresses, "Her Majesty, Queen Mary was delivered of a daughter some weeks ago; but, alas, the babe did not live more than a few days."

His tone of voice is sad, and Anne sighs, sharing that sadness. Now that the girl is gone from England, and no longer a danger to Elizabeth's rule, her antipathy has softened to regretful sympathy, "I am sorry to hear it. Have you sent condolences on behalf of her Majesty the Queen?"

"Mr Sadleir is drafting such a message as I speak, Majesty. While her Majesty's writing is still somewhat ungoverned, I think it appropriate that she sign it - for Queen Mary shall be more likely to accept condolences from her sister."

Anne nods, "I shall speak to her Majesty this evening to advise her of the news. She has always loved her elder sister, and shall be most sad for her."

"Mr Sadleir has already suggested that he leave some space at the foot of the statement for her to add words of her own."

"Good." She pauses, then moves her bishop, "Check."

Startled, Cromwell looks down at the board, "Most clever, Majesty."

They play on in companionable silence awhile, as her ladies continue that long tapestry, or read from the small stock of reformist tracts that now grace a shelf in the Privy Chamber. It is rare to enjoy such times as these - in the midst of the burden of ruling a Kingdom. Henry had never permitted her to involve herself in his work: her role was twofold - to bear sons and shine like an earthly sun to reflect light upon him. But mostly to bear sons.

"When shall we think to consider prospective husbands for Elizabeth?" She asks, "Much as it is good to know that she holds worth again upon the marriage market, she is still barely more than a babe."

Cromwell sighs, "Alas, Majesty, it is not too soon to think of it - even now. Mary was offered as a bride while still in her cradle, after all; though in those days it was upon the assumption that she would have brothers who would rule England while she travelled to the Court of her husband and master. Elizabeth is a Queen; and thus any marriage shall be difficult to arrange if we are to keep England from being swallowed up by another Realm."

She nods, "It is not Elizabeth that they want - it is England." She looks up again, "Perhaps from a noble house of England? Do any young men remain from house Plantagenet?"

Cromwell looks startled, "They are few in number, your Majesty. I fear that your late Lord saw to it that they were removed from the line of succession - in most cases, permanently. The only youth that I can think of is the son of the Marquess of Exeter."

"Courtenay's boy?" Anne looks intrigued, "What do you know of him?"

"Little, your Majesty - other than that he has sufficient royal ancestry to be acceptable. Nonetheless, the matter remains of who would be considered the true ruler of England: Elizabeth, or her eventual husband."

"We shall look to Parliament to settle that."

"Perhaps - but Parliament cannot legislate for a man's self-regard." Cromwell smiles at her, "I have no doubt that Courtenay would accept marriage without hesitation - but would not accept the rank of King Consort."

"Then I thank God that Elizabeth is still so young." Anne smiles, "There is time to prepare a suitable youth to wed her."

Cromwell chuckles, and reaches for one of the few pieces he has left on the board, only to be stopped by the sound of a knock upon the door.

Matthew goes to open it, and looks back, "Majesty, The Lord Privy Seal is without."

"Thank you - show him in, Matthew."

The speed of Rich's step as he comes in screams urgency, and his expression is most worried, "Forgive me - but I did not think this could wait until the morrow." He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, "I was seeing to some matters of business at my house in Smithfield - and the stable boy had this."

Bemused, Anne reaches for it, and smooths it out over the arm of her chair, "A pamphlet, Mr Rich?"

He nods, and waits for her to read it.

_A Call To England To Abjure The Monstrous Concubine And The Little Whore sprung from her Godless Loins..._

Her eyes widen in horror, and all can see the paper beginning to shake as she reads.

The text is quite rambling, but its intent is absolutely clear: demanding that the people of England rise up and depose their lawful Queen - casting the Regent as the Whore of Babylon of whom John spoke in his Revelation, and even Elizabeth as a harlot, despite her tender age. Shaking with suppressed fury, she turns the page:

_Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!_

_God save us from the monstrous strumpet!_

_England's people all must wake_

_To cast out Henry's wanton paike!_

Good King Hal and Saint Queen Kate

God's great rulers most divine

Cast by witchcraft to evil fate

Jesu and his angels do opine

England's glory cast to spite

Stolen e'en as Tom More died

And Fisher's soul taken to flight

While evil tongues to King Hal lied

_Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!_

_God save us from the monstrous strumpet!_

_England's people all must wake_

_To cast out Henry's wanton paike!_

Did you speak the oath of sin?

Did you say not 'Pope' but 'King'?

We were fools to let her in:

The devil's whore with satan's sting!

Father Paul shall loose the bull

To call all men who still have breath;

Nan Boleyn shall pay in full

And all shall dance at her just death!

_Sound the horn and sound the trumpet!_

_God save us from the monstrous strumpet!_

_England's people all must wake_

_To cast out Henry's wanton paike!_

"Who produced this?" she asks, eventually.

"It is anonymous, Majesty." Rich admits, then turns to Cromwell, "I do not have the means to investigate it."

"I shall set men upon it, Majesty." Cromwell advises, taking the pamphlet and reading it slowly, "Rest assured, we shall take steps to identify the person, or persons, who have produced this defamatory screed, and they shall experience the full force of the law."

He re-reads the verses, and then looks at the title, _The Ballad of Wicked Nan Bullen, whore of France and latterly Usurper of King Henry's Crown, stolen through an accident brought about by witchcraft and sorcery_.

And things were going so well.

"Forgive me, Majesty." He rises, and bows, "I must admit that I find this document so offensive that it is my wish to commence investigations into its provenance immediately. It may be that this was produced abroad - but if not, we shall find the printer, and they shall tell us who commissioned it."

"Find him, Mr Cromwell." Anne's eyes are vicious, "I care nothing for rumours about my person - for I have endured such slander for years - but I shall _not_ have my daughter's reputation impugned. What is the punishment for publishing such a work as this?"

"The removal of a hand, Majesty."

"When you find the one responsible, see to it that it is done - and publicly - as a warning to all that I shall not have lies told about my child. I care nothing for myself; it is her Majesty the Queen whom I shall defend in such terms."

He bows again, "Yes, Majesty."

* * *

Such is the swiftness of Cromwell's stride that Rich is obliged to trot to keep up with him, "Do you know who might be responsible for this?"

"No."

"Do you think it likely that we shall find out?"

"No."

"Surely it is possible to identify at least a guiding hand behind it!"

Cromwell stops, and Rich almost crashes into him, "I can think of many who might have commissioned this - but that is not enough. If we do not cut off the head of this snake, then it shall continue to hiss vile slanders no matter how many hands are severed. A tract such as this cannot have been printed in England - for there are few printing presses in the realm, and a mere handful of men who have the skill to use them. It would be a simple matter to visit them each in turn until the culprit was found."

"So it has been printed on the continent." Rich muses.

"Indeed so."

"Then the trail is cold."

"Not entirely," Cromwell muses, "I am well acquainted with a printer in Stepney who has worked for me on numerous occasions - he is from Flanders, and is highly skilled. It may be that there is evidence that we cannot determine upon this pamphlet - but that he can identify. Thus I propose that we pay a call upon him upon the morrow."

"We?"

"You do not wish to come?" Cromwell asks - Rich's inquisitive nature is a matter of amusement in the offices, even if he does not know it.

In spite of himself, he looks pleased, "I should be delighted, Mr Cromwell."

* * *

"What is it, Anne?" As they are in private, Rochford feels no compunction to refer to her by her title; their closeness as siblings has reasserted itself since he abandoned his plotting against her.

"Elizabeth's name is being impugned in a pamphlet that speaks ill of me." She sighs, reaching for a cup of hot, spiced posset. Her mind is busy again, so it is unlikely that the warmed milk shall help her to sleep - but still she drinks it in hopes of rest.

Rochford frowns, "Do you think it to be of sufficient import to harm your reign?"

"After all that we have done to set these vile comments behind me, I do not want some filthy screed to resurrect them again!" she snaps back, then sighs, "Forgive me, George. I am very tired."

"I am not offended, sister." He smiles, taking her hand, "It is hard to read vicious words that speak ill of those that we love."

"The writer claimed that Elizabeth was a wanton - a mere babe! Rendered so for she was born of my womb, and thus cursed as a whore by nature…as her mother was…"

"She is no whore, and neither are you, Anne. The King loved you and sought you out - did you not resist his advances? It was he who longed to chase you!"

"It matters not, brother." She reminds him, "From the cradle, both Mary and I were warned that we must behave with chaste dignity at all times; for if a man looked upon us with carnal intent, it would be we who were to blame, not he; for we had dressed salaciously, or cast temptation upon him by a single glance. Henry did indeed chase after me, sought me as his wife with all determination - for I would not be his mistress as our sister had been. How strange it is that my determination to retain my honour is the very act that has condemned me as a wanton."

She sighs again, and gazes into the fire, lost in thought.

It seems that, no matter how she works to prove to her Subjects that she has never acted in a wilfully carnal fashion, that unwarranted reputation dogs her heels like a savage, rat-hunting terrier. Even were she to publicly devote herself to the rule of St Benedict - or St Francis - and dress in sackcloth and ashes as she did so, she would still be accused of intending to seduce the priest.

Perhaps such rumours shall never be suppressed - but they make one, unbreakable demand upon her; that one requirement: Chastity.

Whether she wishes it or no - she can never, ever love again.


	29. A Florin for Twenty Words

To a first time visitor, the narrow streets and high gables of Brugge seem most charming, even quaint; though the wealth that has paid for the fine architecture and the grand frontage of the Cloth Hall is anything but. Being a great trading city, Brugge attracts all manner of men; men of talent, men of wealth, men with nothing but who are eager to make what they can of themselves in a glittering world of trade and opportunity. Men such as the two who have been obliged to seek out a crumbling garret in which to rest their heads, lacking the funds for anything more appropriate to their once noble state.

The chamber is tiny: little more than an attic with steeply sloping roofs - worse, it is separated from another by only the thinnest of walls, thus obliging the two men in residence to be rather more in one another's company than either would like. It is, to be sure, vastly superior to the horribly cramped cabin of the small merchantman that was the only vessel that was willing to carry them, given the limited funds they had available to pay their passage.

Seated at a small writing desk alongside a grubby dormer window that gives a limited view of the street, the commoner who was once the Duke of Suffolk squints at the paper before him, and sighs with disgust. To be so far from home at such a time…and to know that the true Queen of England endures a personal purgatory in Sweden while the woman who displaced her rules in her stead. What use is he to her now? Trapped in this wretched little space, and reliant upon a small community of English exiles who have found sanctuary in one of the few northern realms that seem disinclined to bow to the heresies of Luther.

Catherine has, of course, declined to join him in his exile. All of his properties and wealth have been snatched by the Concubine, except for those that became his when his ward married him. Whether it was the Woman herself, or that craven monster Cromwell, who purchased her loyalty with the land and its associated income, he cannot speculate; but then - what does it matter now? He has been attainted, his rank and privileges revoked. He is no longer 'Suffolk'; but is now 'Brandon'.

At least he has succeeded in one endeavour - the employment of a printing house to create tracts and pamphlets condemning the wantonness and sin of the woman who has stolen England. That it has taken them two years to even get to this point gives him cause to shudder; all of his grand plans to prepare the way for the rightful Queen rendered down to meagre daydreams in the cold light of their infuriatingly long-lasting penury. The people of that poor, beleaguered realm need to be reminded of the origin of their Queen Regent - a commoner, a wanton whore…he stops that thought sharply - all such contemplations ever seem to do is drive him into a pointless rage, and deprive him of his ability to effectively plan.

The first such pamphlet was smuggled back to England aboard a merchantman some weeks ago, and is doubtless now being passed amongst people all along the route from whichever port at which they landed to London, and Winchester - and possibly even Coventry, Oxford or Norwich if it can be managed.

The door to the small room alongside slams shut, and he shudders with revulsion. Of all the people to be enclosed with in such confinement - Thomas Bloody Boleyn.

Not that he has any right to complain - Boleyn has proved to be far more able to secure something approximating an income upon which they can subsist, and he has his diplomatic experience behind him, not to mention a command of most of the great languages of Europe that he, Brandon, cannot hope to emulate. Many of those who would once have welcomed him now look the other way, thanks to his equal opprobrium, but some remember their former friendship, and thus he has been able to resume some degree of employment in the cloth trade. He is, of course, born of tradesmen, and thus it is in his blood to undertake such menial work - but for Brandon, who has lived as a Lord for much of his adult life, it is more than he is ready to stomach. Thus he works upon the pamphlets, while Boleyn works to pay for their rent and victuals. And despises such an unequal division of labour. The promised support from Norfolk seems not to be available, though it is likely that he has opted not to act until all is truly settled again. Either that, or he has reverted to his habitual pastime of allowing others to take the risks when he plots.

"I heard from our contact in the Hospital of St John." Boleyn reports, shortly, and without casting even a glance at Brandon, "The pamphlet has been circulating in various cities, though it is not possible yet to determine how it has been received." He sets a small flagon of wine down upon the rickety table and fetches out a single cup, "I imagine that the Council are already floundering like a panicked herd of cattle trying to identify the source."

"Not that they shall find it." Brandon observes, coldly, as Boleyn pours wine for himself and takes a rather larger than necessary gulp. Unspoken though it is, it has not gone unnoticed by Brandon that Boleyn seems to be doing that rather a lot these days.

"I would give an eye to see their floundering as they fail to find a perpetrator to punish." He smirks.

Brandon shrugs, and resumes his brooding. The paper before him has few words upon it, and looks set to remain that way; for he has no words to set down that are not all-but-identical to those of his previous tract. Idly, he wonders if anyone has fitted a tune to that ridiculous doggerel 'ballad' that a disgruntled former monk set down for them. There must be another; there _has_ to be. If there is not, then what momentum they might have gained from the first pamphlet shall be lost - but he cannot think of anything to write other than the same angry words over and over again.

If only the Pope would issue a bull condemning the woman and her bastard babe - but still he does not. Why not? Why? She is a harlot, a wanton fornicator whose progeny sits upon an unwarranted throne and falsely rules England - and it is but a matter of time before the heretic woman begins to destroy what remains of the true faith in the Realm…

He stops again, for he can feel his hands clenching into fists as that impotent rage attempts once more to blast out of his heart as though it is a javelin that he can hurl back towards England to bury itself in that vile whore's breast. No - this shall not do. It shall not do at all.

He stops and genuflects at the sound of the noonday _Angelus_ from the nearby Church of Our Lady; before sitting back in his chair and realising that he is hungry. He is not surprised at Boleyn's utter failure to disguise his resentment that they must share the victuals that he has purchased - with _his_ money, that _he_ has earned. Sooner or later, Brandon imagines, that resentment shall emerge and they shall have the inevitable argument that has been brewing between them from the moment they were obliged to flee Arundel, travel in secrecy through countyside filled with men promised grand rewards for their capture and take ship from Hastings, not daring to use a larger port for fear of discovery. It is hard to be comrades in difficult times when one has always despised one's companion.

The meal is a spartan affair of rough bread and sharp cheese, with a poor claret to drink. As he eats, Brandon muses again on the problem of composing a second pamphlet to follow the first. Perhaps he should look again to the monk who wrote that ghastly ballad - he seems to have something of a way with words. Yes. That is what he shall do. He knows that the man attends taverns nowadays more than he attends mass, but where better to discuss such matters as this than a tavern - where most men are interested only in the business of emptying ale-pots?

Continuing to ignore Boleyn's air of sulking martyrdom, Brandon swallows the last of his cheese, and stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"To meet with Brother Benedict."

"Bene _drunk_ , more like." Boleyn snorts, "I do not recall a time when I ever saw him sober."

"Drunk or no, he is a skilled scribe, or at least he was when he was cloistered. I am keen to discuss the text of our next pamphlet."

"In which case," Boleyn advises, "I shall return to the Cloth Hall - there are merchants from London expected this afternoon, and thus fresh rumours for our consideration."

Brandon nods, "If that is so, then perhaps we shall be able to set them down, and thus discomfit her even more."

As he says the words, he marvels at the irony of discussing a conspiracy to inspire scandal around a woman with that woman's own father. Necessity makes for strange bedfellows, indeed.

But if it can restore Mary to her Realm, he shall do it. For her - for her late, sainted Mother, and for his lost, finest friend. He cannot truly have wanted his crown to be so misplaced as this…

_I shall restore your truest will, old friend. Your first, and only, true-blood child shall restore your legacy. I promise you_.

Leaving Boleyn to clear away the plates, he grasps his cloak and bonnet, and sets out to search for the monk.

* * *

Geert Vervloet is a slight man, with something of a squint and a long, thin nose upon which are perched a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses. Despite his rather fussy mannerisms, he gives an air of expertise as he presides over a great wooden printing press with a well practised eye.

"Ah, Thomas." He looks up as Cromwell crosses to join him, clearly a regular visitor to this place, "It is most good to see you again. Are you well? How is Gregory?" He squints beyond his friend towards Rich, who looks intrigued, never having seen such a device before. To his entirely inexpert eye, it seems more to be something that should be retained in the Tower for the interrogation of prisoners: a wooden structure with a flat wooden bed and a heavy screw-press atop it that is lowered with a great lever. Rather than interrogation, however, the men who operate it extract paper upon which is set thick black text, over and over again. It is quite fascinating.

Cromwell is amused at his interest, "I am most well, Geert, as is Gregory - thank you for asking. Allow me to introduce my colleague, Mr Rich."

Vervloet smiles in greeting, "Welcome. Any friend of Thomas is a friend to me."

Cromwell smiles inwardly at the awkwardness of such a comment - Rich is still not entirely a friend.

"Forgive our intrusion into the midst of your industry - but a document has come into my possession that requires a more expert eye than my own."

Immediately, Vervloet is interested, reaching out for the rather crumpled pamphlet, "Hmm…rather ripe sentiments are they not? Anonymous - but then that is no surprise. You require me to identify the source?"

"If that is possible." Cromwell confirms.

The squinting Fleming crosses to the large window to examine the document, "The paper is remarkably thick and rough, Thomas, perhaps to preserve it for a long time. That is unusual - the pamphlets I am employed to print are rarely set upon such heavy paper - which suggests to me that the one who has created them is not an accomplished propagandist."

"Can you identify a source?"

He nods, "I have never seen the like in England - though I recall a maker in Antwerpen who uses a particular mixture of linen and cotton in his furnish, and the resulting paper is known for its thickness and roughness. Thus I would suggest that the paper at least is from Flanders." He brings the pamphlet closer to his nose, and removes the eyeglasses, "The typeface is remarkably distinctive - despite the lack of a name to the document. I recall seeing this form of roman type at a number of presses across Flanders - mostly in Antwerpen and Brugge - so it is my considered opinion that this pamphlet originated in either one or the other."

"In which case," Rich adds, "our propagandist is an exile, and thus beyond our reach."

"At this time, yes." Cromwell agrees, "Thank you for your most helpful analysis, Geert; it has given me a worthy insight into the origin of this scurrilous document, and thus it is possible to lay plans to counter it."

Emerging back into the sunlight, Rich looks bemused, "What plans do you intend to lay to counter a writer who resides in Flanders?"

Cromwell turns to him, "There is naught that can be done overseas; I warrant that, Mr Rich. I think, however, that it would serve us well to increase the number of officials to collect Her Majesty's Customs in any port that accepts vessels from overseas, and to institute a more intensive system of inspection of those that originate from the Low Countries. While we have no means to prevent their production, it may be that we shall be able to stop them at the ports."

"And, should we do so, perhaps it shall be possible to ascertain the identity of the originator." Rich adds, "For if it _is_ possible - perhaps then we can issue pamphlets to counter them."

"That is my thought." Cromwell agrees.

* * *

Anne is perusing the pamphlet again, "So the writer is in Flanders." She says, quietly, "And we are helpless to stop them."

"I fear so, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "Our only means of preventing the arrival of more such pamphlets is to increase the presence of Customs officials in the ports, and to ensure that smaller ports are also watched. If we cannot identify the perpetrator, then our best hope is to make the distribution of further such documents so troublesome that they shall lose any momentum."

"After two years of effort to overturn the hatred of those who thought me naught but a whore, I am determined that I shall not lose that love to a disaffected exile who seeks only to sow discord in my daughter's realm." Her words are firm, but Cromwell can see that her expression is pained, and there is a glistening in her eyes. No one longs to live in a world where they are despised and unfairly maligned - and to be helpless against some unknown individual who intends to make her despised and maligned is a cruel burden.

"Perhaps a game of chess, Majesty?" He says, quietly.

She looks up, and pulls forth a watery smile, "I should like that, Mr Cromwell."

The long tapestry has moved on again, apparently showing a scene from _Androcles and the Lion_ , while a new lutenist, a man of considerably greater age than Smeaton and therefore quite impossible to envisage as a wanton's plaything, works his way through a sequence of French _Ballades_ with an expert virtuosity that exceeds even that of the young man he has replaced.

The combination of quiet conversation over the frame, and the gentle trickling of plucked strings is remarkably soothing, and Anne finds herself able to set aside the cruel words of her unknown enemy, concentrating instead upon the chessmen set before her, and thinking of the moves that she must make, and their consequences.

"Mr Sacks is a fine player, is he not?" she muses, reaching for a white pawn to commence their game.

"Indeed he is, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "I am advised that he is also most capable of setting words to music, and creating pieces that shall serve most well for the Courtiers to dance to. He has worked in a number of noble houses, and I understand that the Court of France were interested in seeking his services at the time that he entered into your service."

"Then we are fortunate to have him."

"Indeed we are."

"Commission him to write some anthems for the Chapel Royal, Mr Cromwell. If his abilities to write for a choir match his ability with instruments in the gallery, then I shall be most pleased to retain his services within the Court."

He nods, unsurprised. If it is possible to employ this man in place of the lovelorn Mark Smeaton, then dispensing with the young man's services shall be an easier prospect than it might otherwise have been. Talented though the young man is, the abilities of his replacement are greater, which shall certainly offer a sufficient reason for the dismissal - though it shall hardly soften the blow.

"If it is easier, Majesty, I am prepared to advise the young man that his services are no longer required." They both know that such an outcome shall cause him to hate the one who advises him of it, "It shall be better if he hates me for making the decision - for then he shall be less likely to speak ill of you."

"Does that not concern you? Being hated?"

He shakes his head, "I have been hated for much of my life at court - it is no concern to me that there is another who despises me. Particularly a disgruntled musician." He reaches for his king's knight, and moves it forth to endanger one of her bishops.

"I thought that I did not care that the Courtiers despised me when I first became Queen." She admits, "It seemed of little consequence in the face of the King's love for me." She pauses, "And then I lost that love - and there was nothing to shield me from that hatred. To find myself so despised was considerably more distressing than I anticipated. Even when I thought that my actions were for the benefit of the realm, that hatred remained."

"Those who think ill of those of us who walk in these great halls see nothing of the burdens that trouble us, or understand that our concerns are for the good of the realm, not for our own comfort." He reminds her, "It is easy to hate - for then we are not obliged to look more deeply, and understand what it is that drives us to do so; or to blame the one that we do not want to blame, regardless of their equal culpability. Most who look upon you as a wanton prefer to see all the blame set at your feet for his late Majesty's pursuit of you, and his determination to gain your hand - as though he were naught but a mindless creature incapable of his own thoughts or will."

"And that, he most certainly was not." She smiles, sadly, "For all our storms and strife, I loved him, Mr Cromwell. When first he sought me, I was appalled; for he was the King, and I was the daughter of a mere Knight - but he wooed me with such gentility, such honeyed words, that I saw beyond that glittering face of royalty, and saw the heart that beat beneath it. My father did not need to prevail upon me to seek a greater prize than entry to his Majesty's bed - for I wanted to give him the son that Katherine could not, and be more than a mere mistress."

Cromwell eyes her, gravely. For a man so observant of human nature as he, her words are no surprise: she could not have made it clearer to him had she had a man behind her holding forth a great banner declaring her love for the King in those early days. Had he loved her in return - or was it merely carnal ardour? Surely not - she is hardly the most beautiful woman at court, and never has been. Had she not come to Court with her French fashions, manners and learning, then it is likely that she would never have captured his attention, and would instead have been married off to some suitable Courtier as had been intended when she was recalled to England. But she did; and captivated all about her with her words, wit and intelligence. Including the King.

"Regardless of scurrilous words, Majesty," he says, eventually, "I think God has chosen wisely. We are a realm that has only recently emerged from deadly, internecine wars - and the folk of Tewkesbury still call a long field in the vicinity of the river 'Bloody Meadow' thanks to the rout of the Lancastrians by the fourth Edward. Were Henry to have been taken from us prematurely, then this is the safest outcome for England. Mary, for all her encroaching womanhood, would have been powerless against Norfolk; Elizabeth more so. But, in setting the Crown of St Edward upon your head, our late Majesty created one who could stand ahead of those who would fight one another to be the power behind England's throne."

She smiles at him, "You have such faith."

"I do." He admits, then smiles back, "But then, my head relies upon it, does it not?"

* * *

As predicted, the former Brother Benedict is comfortably ensconced at a table in a dark corner of a tavern just off the Market Square, and is well in his cups. Despite his disgust at such dissolute behaviour, Brandon purchases a cup of ale, and seats himself at the same table. Unlike most displaced Brothers who have travelled abroad, this man seems to have opted not to enter one of the many Cloisters in the Low Countries, but has chosen to embrace the widest range of earthly delights instead.

"You look at me as though I am the lowest of creatures." The pouch-eyed man observes, with studied disinterest, "And yet you come to me for aid. Why should I risk my neck for your wild enterprise?"

Brandon ignores his comment, but answers his question, "Do you not wish to lay the ground for the triumphant return of England's true Queen? And the restoration of the Catholic faith to a strayed Realm?"

"What is it to me how Englishmen choose to address their prayers to God? I was a second son - my vocation was imposed upon me by a father from whom I would inherit nothing, and I was torn from my family before my voice broke. The end of my House was no misfortune - it was a liberation; and now I engage in trade."

"Trade?"

Benedict leans forward, and smiles, "The ability to read and write is highly valuable, Mr Brandon. I have some facility with languages, and thus I read and write letters for those who cannot - be they Englishmen, Flemings or, like you, Lordlings with a price upon their heads."

His lips drawing back into a snarl, Brandon snatches a handful of the grinning man's tunic, "Have a care. I may not always be in such circumstances. When her Majesty Queen Mary rules England again, as she should, I shall be restored to my Dukedom; and I shall not forget those who were ill mannered, or unwilling to aid me."

Benedict laughs, a hollow, barking sound, "Perhaps you shall; perhaps not. I have no doubt that I shall long since have drunk myself to death before you achieve such an aim. I entertain no illusions as to my state - though I think that you do. I hear the rumours - she is a Consort to a foreign king, and shall never come again to the realm that cast her out. It would serve you better to run to her side and offer yourself as a lapdog."

Slowly, Brandon withdraws his hand.

"That's better." Straightening the stained and gravy-spotted garment, Benedict takes a deep breath, followed by an equally deep gulp of his ale, "I do not doubt that you have come to me to seek my services as a pen-man. I know you to be literate, as I am - so it is my skill with words that you require. Thus, I suggest that you treat me with more respect than you have yet shown me. From the threadbare state of your own garments, I suspect that your attainder has left you poorer even than I."

He smiles again at Brandon's scowl. With no alternative, however, the former Duke takes a pull of his own ale, "Very well, have it as you will. It is my intention that another pamphlet decrying the sinfulness of the Usurper Anne Boleyn be sent forth into the hands of Englishmen. Thus I look to you to write it."

"And what shall you pay me for my services?"

"Your payment shall be the gratitude of a Queen."

"And can I drink a Queen's gratitude? No; you shall pay me, or you shall have not a word."

Scowling again, Brandon delves into the pouch at his belt, and fetches out what few coins he has in his possession - a few _grooten_ , some English pennies and one florin - the last silver coin he has left. God, to think there was a time when he wore gold, jewels, silks and furs…

"I'll take the florin." Benedict eyes the coin hungrily - its worth, while not great, is sufficient to keep him in ale for three days at this Tavern's prices, "It shall serve as a down payment. I shall accept a florin for each twenty words that I write. No less."

It is tempting to refuse; to abandon the table and depart - but he is at a loss for new terms to use to darken hearts against the common usurper of England, and this man is reputed to have no equal amongst the scribes-for-hire in all of Brugge. And he knows it. They both do.

"Very well." He snaps, grudgingly, "A florin for twenty words."

"I shall expect to be paid in full before I relinquish any work." Benedict adds, then smirks, unpleasantly, "If you find it hard to secure the funds to do so, perhaps I might suggest securing some paid employment? You may find it a refreshing experience. I believe the cook of this very tavern requires a spit-hand. Ten _grooten_ an hour and all the ale you can drink."

Benedict has the upper hand - and they both know it. Fighting to contain his anger, Brandon turns and departs without another word.

* * *

Boleyn is pleased with the weight of his purse - a successful day of trade at the Cloth Hall has earned him sufficient funds to secure another month or more in that garret - and still enable him to squirrel away a proportion with a Jewish banker that is at least passing for honest. Much as he despises such rude accommodation, the discomfiture of his even-more-despised colleague compensates for the insects in the mattress, the leak in his roof, and the crack in a window pane. Its additional virtue of being singularly inexpensive ensures that his small fund is growing well - and, in time, he shall be a man of independent means. Mary's day is done - Anne shall never welcome him back to Court; while Norfolk thinks himself still to have some relevance to England. Fools; the lot of them. He shall be glad to accumulate sufficient funds to abandon Brugge - perhaps a return to Paris? Yes - he has friends there who shall welcome him, and aid him in establishing a footing as a trader. But not yet - his money pot is not of sufficient size to warrant it.

Behind his head, the great tower of the Belfort soars to the sky; a square shaft with an octagonal belfry, and he watches the busy Market with an altogether more practised eye. The tavern that is supposedly the favoured haunt of that fallen Monk is located in one of the narrow streets that peels off from the Marketplace, and he waits with ever decreasing patience for Brandon to return from his meeting; gradually eroding his pleasant sense of satisfaction.

Then, at last, the man emerges from the crowds, "There you are." Boleyn snaps, crossly, "I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to earn a tract by engaging in a drinking competition." He ignores a withering glare, "Well?"

Brandon shrugs, "He shall write it."

"And I presume that it is _not_ his intention to do so out of the good of his heart, or a devotion to the cause?"

"A florin for each twenty words."

"A _florin_? For a mere twenty words? God's blood, you are a fool! He has robbed you! I would have demanded a hundred for that price!"

"It is of no matter. He shall write it." Brandon snaps back, brusquely.

"And it is for _me_ to provide the funds, I take it?" Boleyn growls, furious, "Perhaps there shall be some time - preferably _before_ hell becomes ice-bound - that _you_ shall take it upon yourself to deign to seek work. Or is it still beneath you as a man who once wore Ducal velvet?"

"The rewards that shall be granted us when Queen Mary is restored to her throne shall more than outweigh any expenditure that you must meet at this time. Her benevolence shall be matched by her gratitude."

"And you still believe that shall happen? She is in Sweden! A wife to a King; a King who has no claim to our Crown and does not seek it! Under what circumstance can you _possibly_ envisage the girl emerging from Stockholm to reclaim a realm that did not flock to her when she called upon it? She could only depart if her husband left her a childless widow! And you wish _that_ fate for her?"

He feels a sense of spiteful satisfaction at Brandon's stricken expression. No - he has not thought that far ahead, it seems. As long as King Gustav lives, she shall be obliged to remain in Sweden. Should she bear a son, then, again, she must remain in Sweden. Only widowhood, and childlessness, shall free her to return to England - and what burden would that be upon her? Would England even _want_ a Queen who had failed in her primary duty?

His expression hardening, Brandon shakes his head, "I swore my loyalty to her - and thus I shall remain constant. England shall, in time, learn the mistake that she has made in denying the rights of her true Queen. Thus I shall prepare the way for her Majesty to reclaim her stolen Crown. If you choose not to do so, then that is your prerogative; but I have no doubt that she shall be most intent upon demanding an explanation from you - _in person_ \- as to why you abandoned her at her darkest hour."

Boleyn eyes him, scornfully, "Are you still a child? Do you think that scurrilous tracts shall bring down a Government? If we are to succeed in doing what you so greatly desire, then we must do more than disseminate spite. Without the support of the Princes of Europe, any claim by Queen Mary to regain England shall go entirely unheard. Our best hope is to seek out that support - and that can only be done if we present ourselves as her Embassy. If you truly believe that any shall welcome you to their Courts dressed as you are, then we have already failed in the duty to which you cleave with such determination. To form a suitable entourage, we must have money - and a great deal of it - which we cannot hope to achieve without considerably harder work than we have undertaken to date. Set aside your assumption that wealth is a fruit that can be plucked from a tree. It is time for you to learn how men live without grand estates to keep their coffers full."

Brandon scowls again - but Boleyn knows that he has won the day. How strange: in the space of a few words, he has changed all of his plans. It shall not be a trade that he shall seek out in Paris - instead it shall be an Embassy, and thus he shall resume his life as a diplomat, which shall be a true pleasure. But first they must accumulate the funds to support such an enterprise; and the knowledge that the former Duke of Suffolk shall have to work like a burgher in order to achieve that aim shall be a greater pleasure still.

Truly happy for the first time since his flight from England, Boleyn turns upon his heel; and, without looking to see if Brandon is following, takes his first steps towards his new future.


	30. A Social Irrelevance

Cromwell traces his finger along the line of text and squints to interpret the cursive Bastarda hand. Above that familiar opening preamble is an illumination that resembles a colonnade, containing a sequence of Arms and heraldic beasts to represent the late King. Within the enlarged first letter of the title, that same King sits upon his throne, surrounded by his councillors, and Cromwell smiles slightly, remembering the work that was undertaken to produce this enormous pile of data - and the speed at which it was done.

They had been men of the gentry, mayors, magistrates, sheriffs and even bishops; all eager to serve their king with diligence - and for no recompense - to evaluate the wealth of the English religious institutions; and the result is set before him, more than 22 volumes of descriptions and estimations of value that provide a shocking insight into the corruption of the Church.

There had been a time, long ago, when such places despised the accumulation of wealth - but those days are long gone, and a long succession of men eager to buy redemption for their sinful lives through the donation of lands to the Abbeys have granted obscene incomes to those who were supposed to have abjured all worldly wealth. No: the days when such places had any relevance in the communities that surround them are past.No one now truly believes that such people are engaged in a vital duty to save the world from evil through the power of monastic prayer. No - they are nothing more than an irrelevance.

A very wealthy irrelevance.

He looks up as Rich approaches, once again burdened with a napkin containing some victuals following another missed dinner, " _Valor Ecclesiasticus_? Do you intend to recommence the works?"

"I am considering doing so; assuming that her Majesty is willing. Matters upon the continent remain disturbed, and I should prefer to know that our coffers are well prepared should that strife be turned in our direction. I suspect that she has no desire to go to war without good reason - a trait that she shares with the late King's father. Royal bellicosity is ever a drain upon the finances of a nation."

Rich perches upon a nearby table as Cromwell unwraps the napkin to make a meal of bread and cheese, piled together with thick slices of roasted beef, "It is strange that he was so unwilling to wage war - for his son longed for nothing else."

"War is not a game, Mr Rich. I have seen battle, and it is not the grand enterprise that the late King envisaged - for he was never permitted to lead his troops into the fray, and thus did not see the true horror of combat. He never learned that conflict achieves nothing but destruction, bloodshed and heartbreak - and resolves nothing that could not have been more easily cured at the outset by wise diplomacy. It is my view that England should fight only if she must - not merely for the sport of it."

"The young bloods of England shall despise you for such a notion." Rich grins, cheerfully, "If the monies we recover from the Houses are not to be used for war, I assume that her Majesty has other plans for it?"

Cromwell nods, "She wishes to commission the building of roads between the major towns of England to facilitate trade - and to improve the larger ports for the same purpose. It shall provide work for those who have none, and men who have the means to purchase the land shall find their lot equally improved."

Rich blinks, "God above, that shall be costly. Are we sure that continued closures can support such expenditure?"

"Hence my return to the _Valor Ecclesiasticus_."

"And you intend to undertake that work alone?"

Cromwell snorts with amusement, "I shall not - Ralph shall. I am ever in awe of his powers of concentration."

* * *

Elizabeth is frowning with concentration, her brow furrowed and her tongue slightly poking from her mouth, as she slowly, carefully, traces letters that are beginning to show signs of growing into a fine chancery hand. The writing is still ungoverned, of course, for her five-year-old fingers still lack the dexterity to avoid blots and splatters.

The text is a short brace of simple sentences, but offers a challenge that fascinates the little girl; a passage that she has translated out of Spanish into English, and is now re-translating back into French. That, in itself, seems a simple thing for a child so capable in each language - but the true difficulty is in ensuring that the text, in French, matches the context, form and intent of the original Spanish exactly. To most children, such a thing would be a ghastly chore that they would dread - but Elizabeth relishes it, for her new tutor, William Grindal, presents the entire process to her as an enjoyable game.

Mistress Champernowne sits opposite, working on another passage of greater length, for she also enjoys the process of double translation, though her text not only longer, but is being translated into French from Latin before being translated onward into Spanish, as her young charge will learn to do in time rather than the simpler process of moving the translation through her mother tongue. Her original intention was to encourage Elizabeth to do the same - but the girl is so fascinated that she does so for her own leisure instead.

Seated nearby, reading a long, dull report from her French Ambassador, Anne enjoys the quiet industry all about her. It is likely that Elizabeth shall bound over to her shortly with her work, but she shall welcome the interruption - for her mind is wandering thanks to the dryness of the text in her hands.

For reasons she cannot fathom, her thoughts are occupied with the death of Edward Seymour, and - a few weeks later - Anthony Wingfield. The pair died two years back; but, even so, the reality of being obliged to condemn them has haunted her ever since, and she wonders how it was that Henry was able to sign a death warrant with such ease.

Was he haunted at night by the shades of the condemned? Did they ask him why he had ended their lives with the stroke of a pen? It matters not that the pair were guilty of treason - that they stood at the side of a pretender who wanted to rob Elizabeth of her rightful crown; they were men: living, breathing people who had thoughts, dreams and loves of their own - both snuffed out with the single signature 'Anne the Queen'.

Both men faced their deaths with dignity, and a courage that she wonders whether she could emulate; each giving a stirring speech that confessed their treachery, and exhorted the people below their scaffolds to pray for the Queen Elizabeth, and her noble mother. Such is expected of a convicted traitor, of course. Thankfully, each of them was decapitated at a single stroke.

Wulfhall is now in the hands of the youngest brother, the impetuous Thomas, while the sister has married into another gentry family elsewhere in Wiltshire, and shall never come to Court again. The rest of the estate has been handed to a middle brother, Henry, who seems to have no ambition to come to Court or to gain any prominence at all. She is pleased at his decision to remain obscure, and that the remaining siblings have been taken care of in a manner that shall keep them firmly away. No - there shall be no Seymours here while she wears a crown.

Shaking herself slightly, she forces herself to focus upon the report again, and sighs; for that makes equally grim reading. The Emperor is - again - fighting the Ottomans, while King Francis seems interested in using the opportunity to bite off small morsels of the western Empire and digest them into his own Kingdom. Neither nation is particularly interested in England at this time, and the last grand treaty between England and France seems forgotten - perhaps under the assumption that it fell at the time of Henry's death.

Much as she has always favoured France, Anne has no wish to enter into any treaty that obliges her to declare war. The grand aspirations that lay behind the Treaty of Perpetual Peace were those of the seventh Henry, and quickly abandoned by the eighth. Perhaps it might be possible to forge another such treaty - one that brings all the Kingdoms of Europe together, rather than sets them against one another. It has, after all, been attempted - and to fail once does not mean that one should not try again.

Her council shall scoff at such a notion, of course, for who amongst them has not been raised to believe in the heroic glory of war? But she has visited infirmaries while upon progress, and seen the people who have borne the brunt of such violence; old men deprived of limbs, or even parts of their faces, and now obliged to rely upon the charity of others to continue what remains of their lives. No, if she can save the young men of her realm from such a fate, then she shall endeavour to do so.

"Excellent, Majesty!" Grindal's voice is delighted, "Your abilities with languages are remarkable - Mistress Kat has taught you well."

Anne smiles to herself, recalling her brother's vehement determination to escape his lessons, and the switchings he would receive for doing so until a tutor more sympathetic to his moods had been engaged and truly awoken the intelligent youth’s love of learning. She had been more fortunate: being eager from the very first to grasp the opportunity to investigate the collections of books her family had accumulated, and being encouraged to do so.Nonetheless, even she had not been immune from a cane across the palm for the slightest error, and had learned to dread such punishment. Neither Mistress Champernowne nor Mr Grindal view chastisement with approval - she would not have permitted their appointment if they had.

"Look at my work, Mama!" Elizabeth, as expected, rushes over to her side with the paper. As expected, the writing is very untidy, but the words are correctly spelled, and the sentences are properly constructed; for Elizabeth's mind seems to work twice as quickly as her hands, and her intellect is leaving her dexterity far, far behind.

"It is excellent, my dear one." She smiles back, "No wonder Mr Grindal is so pleased."

"What are you reading, Mama?" Young though she is, Elizabeth is well aware that the papers upon her mother's lap are important.

"It is a report from our ambassador in France, my Elizabeth." She answers, "He speaks of the doings of France, and the Holy Roman Empire. It is important that we know these things - as England is a small realm, and we do not want to be overly buffeted by storms that break amongst our neighbours."

"Yes, Mama." Elizabeth nods, then frowns, "Are there storms?"

"Some, my dear. But none that are near to us."

"What shall you do, Mama?"

"I shall speak to your Council, Elizabeth, and we shall think upon how we shall speak to your neighbouring princes to persuade them that it is better not to fight. Your Grandfather refused to go to war - and he wanted everyone to live in peace, for he saw how easy it was for a kingdom to fall when riven by war. He claimed England by right of conquest - and had no wish to give any other cause to do the same to him."

"I see." The child nods, though she is far too young to truly appreciate the political machinations that shall be involved. That, of course, can come later.

"Majesty," Mistress Champernowne calls across, "Shall we take Castor and Pollux into the gardens awhile? I think they shall be pleased to play outside."

Immediately, Elizabeth's smile widens, and she turns to her mother, "May I?"

There is no need for her to ask, of course - to walk in the gardens is quite normal at this time of day - but she is a courteous and deferential child, and Anne loves her for it, "Yes, of course you may."

She watches fondly as Elizabeth returns her work to the large table, curtseys to Grindal, who bows in response, then leads Mistress Champernowne from the room, chattering excitedly. Oh, to be so carefree; to think nothing of such great concerns. How soon that shall, perforce, be lost?

Sighing, she returns to the report, and continues to think upon how the Council shall consider it.

* * *

Cromwell's expression is grim as he reads for the paper, "Assuming that the religious houses still possess a level of income commensurate to the figures reported three years past, it would seem that the degree of monies that are being withheld from the state are of such considerable size that they would pay for the building of a system of roads - and the development of our ports - three times over."

The supportive grumblings of his fellow councillors are very gratifying. There was a time when the sanctity of such institutions was absolute; and those who opposed reform refused to see their moribund irrelevance. Those conservatives are no longer upon the Council, and instead he is free to promote reform with renewed vigour. The presence of Archbishop Cranmer shall also go some way towards aiding him in doing so.

Anne's expression is one of shock, " _Three_ times? That is scandalous! How can those who preach the virtue of poverty justify such incomes? And why is it not used to alleviate the trials of the poor who live around them?"

"The Brothers do not leave their cloisters, Majesty." Cranmer advises, gravely, "Only mendicants serve God within communities, and they reside more closely to the world; but the world has equally corrupted them, and few of them are devoted to the principle of poverty these days."

"If the wealth that they keep for themselves were to be liberated, then the construction of roads shall encourage further trade, and strengthen England as a European power, shall it not? Thus our word shall carry more weight alongside that of the Emperor and King Francis."

Sir John Russell nods, approvingly, "I think that it shall be most wise to do what we can to improve our standing amongst the nations of Europe; we are a small realm, after all - and our one true protection is our island state. It is clear to see that those realms where trade flourishes also flourish; and we would be fools to isolate ourselves from commerce."

"If we are to close the religious houses, Gentlemen," Anne reminds them, "then it must be done with efficiency and care - and the first funds recovered should be granted to charitable causes; before we commence work upon roads. I shall not have my daughter's subjects see wealth removed from one institution, only to be swallowed up by another without their being granted so much as a groat of it."

That causes a lot of raised eyebrows, but Cromwell understands, for he is unlike any other man at the table, lacking a birth to privilege and wealth. While most men accept their lot as being God's will - for they are taught so from the cradle - they are not blind to the meagre wages they receive while those who pay them eat fine foods from fine plates and dress in velvets. That they do nothing to protest is thanks to that quiet acceptance, endurance and hope for reward in the next life. That he has escaped that world is proof to him that it is lack of opportunity, not God's will, that keeps men in their lowly estate. The peasantry are not educated - but they are also not stupid. The Regent's vow to serve the people of England has brought her out of her cosseted world, and she has seen it with her own eyes. Unlike most, she has not closed her eyes to it.

"Mr Cromwell," She turns to him, "I think it is time to set the commissioners to work. Advise Mr Wriothesley to begin preparations."

"Yes, Majesty."

"And what of our relations overseas? I appreciate that the Emperor and King Francis are engaged elsewhere at this time, and thus we are at least spared the concern of being obliged to enter into an unwanted war. How go matters in Sweden - has our Embassy sent word?"

Sussex shakes his head, "Not at this time, Majesty. The last word we received other than the loss of a princess was that matters were settled, and his Majesty the King is hopeful that boys shall be born in due time."

"And what of religious matters?" Cranmer asks, keenly, "Has King Gustav continued to show zeal for the reform of the Church within his realm?"

Anne conceals a slight smile as Rich rolls his eyes, though Cranmer fails to notice the expression of exasperation. For all his interests, the Archbishop's own zeal for reform is at least half as great again as that of King Gustav - if not more - which annoys the Lord Privy Seal somewhat, being far less intent upon the idea.

"His work continues apace, your Grace," Cromwell advises, "As his decision to abandon the strictures of Rome was largely concurrent with that of our own late King, and Sweden abolished Canon law two years ago. Equally, monastic institutions are being suppressed, and lands once granted to the Church in hopes to purchase redemption have been restored to the descendants of those who donated them, while other land has been made available for purchase by men of Gentry classes who lack estates."

There are nods all around the table: that same population of gentlemen with lands acquired from the smaller religious houses formed something of a backbone to the support that she received when Mary attempted to raise England against Elizabeth.

"Perhaps we should do likewise, then, Gentlemen." Anne muses, "Before the works commence, ensure that those lands that were wrested from families in the form of donations to the Church are offered back to those who would have them now. Where descendants cannot be found, the land should be sold."

Cromwell nods approvingly, "That is a worthy plan, Majesty. Where families have fallen upon hard times, the restoration of lands taken from them by greedy prelates eager to pretend that doing so would bring favour with God shall win their love as their fortunes rise."

"What of the displaced occupants?" Anne asks, suddenly, "It would serve us ill to set them all adrift to exist as naught but vagabonds."

"We have set aside funds to pay them a pension, Majesty." Rich advises, "Thus they are granted the opportunity to find gainful employment, or - should they prefer to return to a cloister - to travel abroad in search of other houses living under the same Rule."

"And a good thing, too." Southampton snorts, "We would not want bearded men in ragged habits cluttering up the gutters."

"With the hair growing back into the shaved circle of their tonsures." Rochford adds, cheerfully, "I imagine that would be quite a sight. Perhaps a new fashion?"

"Now, now, brother." Anne chides, though she smiles as do the rest of the Councillors at his joke, "While we make light of the matter, it remains unfinished business. Thus I ask you, Mr Cromwell, to advise Mr Wriothesley of his task. Ensure that he is aware that there shall be no further delay - for I am aware that he lacks the same degree of sympathy towards this grand work that we share."

Cromwell nods again, "Yes, Majesty. I shall see to it."

Anne rises from the table, prompting her Council to rise and bow, "Thank you, Gentlemen. That shall be all for today. I believe we are entertaining our Ambassadors this evening, and I wish to ensure that all is prepared."

* * *

While the Court is far less profligate than once it was, there are occasions when display and show are of vital importance, and tonight is one such night. The hall of Placentia is gaily decorated with banners and drapes, while a multitude of candles shall provide light as darkness draws in, though the days are longer now that Eastertide is past.

In the Gallery, Jacob Sacks, who has tacitly replaced Mark Smeaton, is organising the musicians and the parts that he has prepared for them to accompany the dance after the feast is ended. Observing the to-ing and fro-ing, Cromwell allows himself to feel a sense of contented satisfaction. The two greatest threats to Elizabeth are no longer present, and God has smiled upon the harvest for the last two years in a row, creating a surplus of grain that he has taken care to purchase and set into storage to defend against harder times. The closure of the religious houses is shortly to recommence, and that shall certainly swell the Treasury more effectively than any bouts of belt-tightening by the Court.

He has set commissioners to work at all the ports large enough to accept vessels of greater size than an eight-man row-boat, and all vessels are inspected upon arrival to ensure that there are no more vile pamphlets entering the realm. Former commercial contacts have proved very helpful to his hopes of establishing a network of informants across Europe, and he would not be immodest were he to admit that he regularly knows the business of foreign Kings before they themselves do.

But for that network, he would not know that the two noble fugitives from England, the former lords Wiltshire and Suffolk, are still bound together in their enterprise - and resident in Brugge while they do what they can to accumulate the funds required to approach foreign courts without being thrown out as vagabonds. Furthermore, he has discovered in just the last two days the they are in communication with Norfolk, though there is little that can be done from Arundel Castle while Mary remains in Sweden, and the Regent holds the love of the people.

Tonight's discussions, of course, shall touch upon the future of Queen Elizabeth - for all her tender years. As a Queen Regnant, her value upon the marriage market is higher than all of the eligible princesses of Europe put together - and he must take great care to ensure that the man who marries her does not become _de facto_ King of England. Queen she may be - but she is a woman, and thus shall be obliged under God's law to be subservient to her husband. It shall be all but impossible to engineer circumstances in which her husband is her master, but also her loyal subject. No wonder Kings are so set upon sons. It shall be a great challenge to bring about a solution; and England's future shall ride upon it.

He is not sure whether he is exhilarated at such a prospect, or terrified.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts and he turns to see Sadleir approaching, "Ralph."

"Mr Treasurer." Sadleir comes to stand beside him, "I am given to understand that Ambassadors from France, the Empire, Milan, Genoa, Denmark and Bohemia shall be in attendance tonight. I have, therefore, assigned them to the two highest tables, alongside members of the Privy Council."

"Of course." Cromwell smiles, "Your reliability is exceeded only by your loyalty, Ralph. Thank you."

"It is my honour, Mr Cromwell." Sadleir bows, and withdraws to discuss the timing of the first remove with the Chief Steward of the Kitchens. Watching him go, Cromwell sighs - that young man is wasted in his current position. It is surely time to promote him. He makes a mental note to raise the matter with the Regent, before turning to greet Chapuys - always the first to arrive at such occasions. Presumably to find a quiet corner in which to surreptitiously observe others before anyone sees him do it. Cromwell is well aware of Chapuys's habits.

"Excellency." He bows, formally.

"Mr Treasurer." Chapuys betrays no surprise that Cromwell is present, or that he knows what the Ambassador is about. They have been in the Court for too long to be unaware of one another's behaviour, "Do you think it likely that we shall know this night to whom her Majesty the Queen shall be betrothed?"

Small talk - of course. The prospect of the Queen's marriage remains a matter for conjecture, and even a man as inquisitive and gossipy as Chapuys would not expect Cromwell to have anything substantive to say upon the matter. The Treasurer is only free with information when there is something to be gained from it - and what can he gain from discussing a betrothal with the Imperial Ambassador?

"That is a matter for her Majesty the Regent to discuss, Excellency - I can assure you that, once it is decided that her Majesty Queen Elizabeth is of suitable age to be betrothed, all shall be considered with good speed." Cromwell smiles, then turns and looks across the hall with an infuriatingly bland expression, "I understand that the kitchens are preparing some excellent beef from the fields of Norfolk this evening. I do urge you to try some."

"I shall bear it in mind." Smiling, Chapuys withdraws in search of the quiet corner he was seeking.

* * *

Mr Sacks's new galliard, which he has named after the Queen, trickles down from the gallery, as Anne commences her tenth dance of the night. She is tired, footsore and more than grateful that she shall be free to take a seat once this outing is done.

There is, of course, no better way to enter in to private discussions with the male Ambassadors than to do so in the midst of a dance; and she has taken full advantage of the opportunity. Some of the men sent to England from their home Courts are engaging and interesting, others stultifyingly dull; but in all cases they have been entertained with discussions centring upon the eligible young sons of their masters - their qualities, their perfections and every wonder in between. How remarkable that not one prince upon the Continent has a single fault of any kind. Almost as remarkable as the astonishing expectation that a child of five years would be an ideal match for a youth near-on ten years her senior.

She is not surprised that her Lord Treasurer has not joined the dance. There were times when he did so, years back; but now he prefers to claim that he lacks the art, and instead remains near the dais, watching over those upon the floor. As she turns back and forth, she becomes ever more aware that her eyes always seek him out - as though hopeful for an approving glance. She used to do that at Blickling, and then at Hever, while she was growing up, enjoying that pleased smile that would play across her father's lips as she showed herself to be an excellent dancer. At one time, it had been pleasure at her achievement - but later it became pride at her abilities to charm men, and hopes that she would win him greater rewards for himself through a suitable conjugal match. Even now, it grieves her that his love for her was so utterly consumed by his ambition for himself. And now he is gone - lurking upon the continent like a coiled serpent, eager to reclaim England for whichever Queen he can use to his own advantage. Instead, it is to another man that she looks for that earnestly wished-for paternal approval.

The music ends, and she curtseys to her partner, a gangling man from Copenhagen with a pocked face but an earnest and kindly manner, and smiles warmly, "Thank you, Excellency, I shall bear his Majesty's words in mind as I consider England's future alliances, and her Majesty's future husband."

"An interesting discussion, Majesty?" Cromwell asks, blandly, as she retakes her seat, his eyes still upon the gathered throng in the candle-lit expanse of the hall.

"Did you know that the princes of Europe are a quite remarkably saintly group of young men, Mr Cromwell?" She asks, lightly, "It appears that they are utterly lacking in any reprehensible traits, are magnificently handsome, and the most intelligent youths in Christendom."

"Is that not how all princes are meant to be?" Cromwell's eyes remain upon the gathered guests, though she can hear the faintest sound of amusement in his voice.

"Be that so, or no, Mr Treasurer," She smiles, "They all possess the same failing - the youngest of them is ten years older than she. The eldest near on twenty - and a widower, to boot. We must make alliances to protect ourselves from those who look upon us with covetous eyes, but the price shall not be her future marital prospects."

He does not comment. Regardless of the Regent's wish to protect her daughter for as long as possible, the requirements of convention override all; and Elizabeth shall marry whichever man is most expedient for England's interests. There shall be no choice in the matter, either for the child or the mother.

Not that it matters this night - for the important work has been done upon the dance floor. In the course of a single galliard, pavane or tordion, Queen Anne has charmed the various ambassadors of Europe each in their turn with greater effectiveness than her late husband could ever have achieved. Even Chapuys, that old rascal, seems rather uncertain now what to make of her. He is not won entirely, of course, but his hostility is now tinged with confusion as he realises that the woman with whom he took a turn about the floor is far more intelligent and astute than he realised.

The number of dancers is reducing now as people tire and either seat themselves, or withdraw for the night. Relieved, Anne sits back and reaches for a glass of _eau de vie_ , "A success, I think, Lady Rochford."

Jane nods, and smiles back, "I think so, Majesty. First win their hearts, then win concessions."

"Absolutely."

Lord Rochford returns from the dance floor, looking equally pleased, "I have been eavesdropping, Majesty." He reports, cheerfully, "The talk amongst the Ambassadors is very positive - indeed, they are vying with one another to claim that they have won the hand of the Queen Elizabeth for their princes, and that England shall enter into an alliance with them."

"I look forward to seeing the proposals that shall be set before me in the next few weeks." Anne agrees, "We cannot exist in isolation. We have our alliance with Sweden, but I should prefer to at least extend the hand of friendship to as many as possible. Thus we can protect ourselves from a hostile invasion, and look to friendships to ensure that we are not obliged to enter into foolish wars with our neighbours. My late husband's father was well known as a peacemaker, and he did not make foreign wars. I think we should learn from that example."

Still watching the activity in the hall, Cromwell comments again, "And his reluctance to make war also proved most beneficial to the nation's coffers. From the records I have examined, England's treasury was in excellent health at the time of the succession of his son."

He chooses not to add that the son, and his wives, frittered that wealth away. Better to concentrate on rebuilding it than lament its loss.

"I am tired." Anne declares, stifling a yawn, "I think I shall retire - as quite a number of my courtiers appear to have done."

She rises from her chair, causing all around her to turn and bow as she makes ready to depart. It has been a long day, but at least there is hope for future friendships with those who might otherwise be enemies.

* * *

The evening has largely wound down with the departure of the Regent, and Chapuys remains quietly secure in an alcove just outside the hall, watching as the few remaining courtiers depart for their chambers. His eyes are intent, for there is one man in particular that he hopes to waylay.

It had been far easier to obtain information from the previous Court, as Henry had surrounded himself with nobility, selecting quantity over quality, and the politicking that ensued between the various factions had always been the leakiest of sieves when he needed to know what was happening. That the Concubine has managed to unite her council so thoroughly has made such eavesdropping largely impossible, and he resents being so blind. There is, however, one man that he can look to who might be prepared to aid him in exchange for some form of recompense.

He is not obliged to wait for too long, as Rich emerges from the hall, slightly tipsy and waving a rather foolish goodbye to a woman with whom he has spent much of the evening. Like many of the men at court, his wife is elsewhere and thus he looks to engage in affairs in her absence. Smiling cheerfully, he makes his rather unsteady way towards the spot where Chapuys is waiting.

"Good evening, Mr Rich - a most enjoyable evening, was it not?"

"Hmm? Ah, Excellency, yes - it was." Rich hiccups slightly. It's been some time since he has imbibed _quite_ that much wine, "Are you returning to your chambers?"

"I am indeed. And who was the lady?" Chapuys keeps his tone cheerful, as though merely making an observation upon a good choice of mistress.

"Her? Lady someone or other. I forget her name - though she has cost me a goodly amount in jewels. Sarah, I think." He adds, as though an afterthought, "That's her name. Or was it Susan?" He giggles slightly at his foolish drunkenness.

Chapuys smiles, tolerantly. Rich is generally a very incisive individual, but less so when he is drunk. He is also, in spite of his current position, acquisitive, greedy and eager for wealth. A number of his properties are, after all, snatched for himself from the crop of religious institutions that were closed before the King died. His usual informants have departed with the disgraced lords who employed them, and he is struggling to find new people to tap for worthwhile intelligence to inform his reports to his master. The offer of more wealth in exchange for information? That would be more than helpful to a man for whom all previous information channels are closed.

"A costly pastime, then?"

"Not excessively so."

The Ambassador catches at Rich's elbow and guides him away from the corridor, "Forgive me, but I am a man in need."

"Need?" Suddenly the Lord Privy Seal seems a lot less drunk, and Chapuys is rather nervous; though he opts to plough on.

"It is helpful to me, and to his Imperial Majesty, to be kept apprised of matters in the English Court, Sir Richard. I believe that you are now a highly placed courtier - and thus privy to a great deal of worthwhile information."

"I am indeed, Excellency." Rich boasts, smiling expansively, "What information would you desire?"

"As much as you can provide for me." Chapuys smiles back, "I can assure you that you would be paid very well for your assistance."

Immediately, the smile becomes almost predatory, "And how much would that pay be? I take it that your other sources are proving to be less than useful to you if you are seeking information from me."

Chapuys smiles again - of course this venal traitor would be pleased to betray the Concubine for gold. For a moment, he is tempted to offer thirty pieces of silver, "That would depend upon the quality of the information."

Rich's eyes narrow, "Believe me, I am a member of the Queen's closest circle. The information I could grant you would be of the highest quality. I should have stood with the true Queen, had she been granted her inheritance, and I have wondered if there might be a way to aid her, for I have sinned grievously in my acts against her, as there was little course but to do so." He suddenly sounds quite frighteningly sober, "If I am to do this, however, I expect not only to be paid well, but also to be protected. Should I be discovered, then I shall need aid to escape the wrath of those who would destroy me. I have worked damned hard to win the trust of those around me, so their vengeance would be increased at least tenfold should they discover that I am the source of your knowledge. Norfolk threatened to have me quartered - I think it likely that the Concubine would have me sliced to death and fed to her stupid little dogs."

The Ambassador is pleased - he has bitten, and decidedly more quickly and easily than expected, despite his obvious concern at the punishment that might be laid upon him should he be discovered. That is no surprise - the man is a notorious coward, "I shall ensure that you shall be granted safe passage to a home suitable for a man of your political status at a location of your choosing anywhere within the Empire, Mr Rich. Furthermore, I shall arrange for you to receive a pension of three hundred ducats a month for the information that you supply - to be retained for the rest of your days should you be obliged to flee. The place of safety shall be provided for you, and for your family."

"Forget them - I do not need to be accompanied." Rich's eyes are vicious, "I shall give you all that you seek - and more."

Chapuys's smile widens further still, "I look forward to doing business with you."


	31. Regnans in Excercis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slight delay - I've been in London (again). Here is the next - albeit delayed - chapter. Christmas Greetings to all!

Anne reads the report with interest, "And this is just the larger houses in the south of England?"

Cromwell nods, "Yes, Majesty. The commissioners have found not only remarkable degrees of wealth, but also a degree of licentiousness that has hitherto been entirely unsuspected. Not a few Abbots and Priors have been obliged to remove themselves from compromising positions with females of dubious repute in order to receive commissioners - and, indeed, I am reliably informed that more than one attempted to offer bribes to deter them from continuing with the inspection and closure."

Her eyes widen, and there is a grumbling of comment around the council table, "Are you suggesting that men of supposedly high principle who are avowed celibates maintain stables of whores?" Sussex is quite scandalised at the suggestion.

"Alas, yes." Cromwell confirms, "The officials that have reported such situations are unimpeachably honest. I do not doubt their word."

"Is this the case in most such houses?" Anne asks, concerned.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No, Majesty; I think that it is the exception rather than the rule - but nonetheless, the degree of wealth maintained by the larger houses is quite shocking. Mr Wriothesley anticipates that the funds that we shall recoup are likely to reach into hundreds of thousands of pounds in the first year alone."

Everyone stares at him, shocked. In a world where a labourer would earn no more than tuppence a day, the thought of such immense sums of money being stored in institutions that have supposedly sworn themselves to poverty seems quite scandalous.

"Then they should be closed, Mr Cromwell!" Southampton demands, furiously, "That unwarranted wealth must be removed from them forthwith!"

He nods, "That is ongoing, I can assure you, my Lord. All monies are being carefully accounted for, and reports shall be issued to the Council each week. All decisions relating to the expenditure of said monies shall be made collectively by your Majesty and the Council - though lands snatched from families by the church as a claimed donation to prevent damnation shall be returned to the descendants of the donor, in such cases where the family can be traced, as you ordered, Majesty."

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

There are general nods of approval; while the sale of the lands would generate significant revenue, what is that in comparison to the loyalty that such a gift shall inspire? There is already a substantial number of families who have responded to the purchase of their new lands with their loyalty, as Mary found to her cost, but to restore property to those from whom it was unfairly snatched? Were the young woman to return from Sweden, she would find herself unable to secure even the gentry to her cause.

"How many houses have been closed?" Anne asks.

"At present, some forty eight have been visited, and are either in the process of being closed, or are closed, Majesty." Cromwell consults his notes, "It is too soon to say how much wealth shall be recouped from these closures, but Mr Wriothesley's figures seem likely to be matched by Christmastide - even though another quarter shall still need to pass before the year's end."

"And has there been any opposition?" Rich asks, suddenly, "Forgive me - but not all Englishmen are as keen upon ending the corrupt practices of such institutions as we. Our reforms are greater than the mere closure of these houses, are they not?"

Anne watches as her councillors exchange glances, "Why would there be opposition?" Rochford asks, though he sounds bemused rather than hostile, "Surely her Majesty's subjects are pleased to know that the monies that have been withheld from them by these rapaciously greedy monks are to be granted to them in terms of new opportunities?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Mr Rich is wise to ask such a question, my Lord. The reform of the church continues, but not all Englishmen are willing to abjure the Roman faith - they are held in its toils for fear of damnation should they fail in the smallest degree to offer all that they have to the Church. If they truly believe that they shall be cast into hell as heretics if they question the merest degree of all that is wrong with popery, then it is hard to persuade them that such fears are groundless."

"Do you think they would fight against reform?" Sir John Gage looks worried at the thought.

"It is hard to say." Cromwell admits, "For all the strength of their faith, many Englishmen are deeply suspicious of any who are not of their own. Should the Pope demand that Englishmen remove a faithless Queen, I think it likely that they would not do so."

"But if they feel that their faith is under threat," Rich counters, "That might not be so."

Sussex glares at him, "And what of _your_ faith?"

"No, my Lord." Anne interrupts, "Let him speak. He is correct to air his concerns if he has them. Say on, Mr Rich."

"It is not unknown for men to adhere to a faith with excessive zeal, Majesty." Rich continues, "I do not count myself amongst them - for, God knows, my faith is weaker than most - but if there are men who consider the Roman faith to be the only true religion, and that it is threatened, then they may believe that they must act to remove the heretics that are leading England into damnation."

She nods, "That is a worthy argument. Much as I think it right that we must free men from the oppression of Rome, it is important to understand that not all men are willing to be released from such slavery - and may even fight to be permitted to remain enslaved."

"They do not see it that way." Rich adds, quietly, "They have been raised to believe that any faith other than that of Rome is heretical and leads only to hell."

"As were we all." Anne reminds him, "It is hard to set aside such belief, even when one is assured that it is erroneous. What do you suggest? That we permit those who do not wish to abjure the Roman faith to retain it?" she pauses, and frowns, thinking over the idea, "Perhaps that is a wise proposition - we do not prevent those who do not wish to accept reform from continuing to follow the popish religion; but instead allow them to continue in peace, and wait for it to die away of its own accord as the children in the schools are taught the reformed faith."

For a moment, everyone stares at each other, shocked at such a suggestion; certainly none of the men at the table would have thought to be so pragmatic. If there is a risk that the people of England shall fight to keep their faith, then why provoke them to do so? Surely it is better to allow them to continue for the rest of their days, while the generation that follows gradually abandons subservience to a foreign primate who cares only for his own benefit.

The more she thinks upon it, the better the idea sounds: certainly better than the risk of civil war. Elizabeth is, after all, being educated to be pragmatic in all matters pertaining to the governance of her Kingdom - and this would be a true exemplar.

"Mr Cromwell - draft a proclamation that frees her Majesty's subjects from the obligation to swear solely to the Church of England, but instead to swear loyalty to England in all matters but that of faith."

He is staring at her, open-mouthed.

"Please do not do that, Mr Cromwell, a fly might enter that gaping hole and then where would you be?"

* * *

Cromwell stares at the paper before him, and wonders what the hell to write. In an instant, his intentions to stamp out the Roman faith have been firmly pushed aside, and now he has to formulate a document that shall allow Catholics to remain so. It is hard to even pick up the quill, never mind set words down upon paper. Hell - it was a simple thing to do when he was drafting the bill to repeal the heresy law.

He looks up as Rich approaches his desk rather tentatively. It is hard not to glare at his colleague - though he is not entirely to blame.

"Might I speak to you - in private?" Rich is wringing his hands again.

Bemused, Cromwell nods, and the pair exit the offices in search of a quiet chamber.

"What is wrong?" the door is barely closed before Cromwell speaks.

"Two nights ago, as I was emerging from the Hall after her Majesty invited the Ambassadors to feast, I was approached by the Imperial Ambassador."

Cromwell nods. He does not need to ask why - Chapuys has been his diplomatic adversary for years, even though they are on friendly terms for much of the time, "How much did he offer you for information?"

"Three hundred ducats a month - to become a pension for life should I be obliged to flee England."

"I take it you accepted?"

"I did. It seemed sensible to at least offer a pretence of co-operation; there is no telling who else he might approach, and then we would have no control over the information presented to him. He has not made any further attempts to speak to me, so the matter rests at this time."

For the first time since he departed the council meeting, Cromwell smiles, "That shall be useful. I suggest that you offer a reduced payment in exchange for reciprocal information."

Rich nods, "Would it be worth surreptitiously declaring for the Queen of Sweden? Perhaps in hopes that she might return to England in due time. If it is possible to enter into a conspiracy of some sort, then we might receive advance warning should any plot be formed. I have hinted such sentiment - but I could certainly be more overt."

"After the work to send her away? I do not think it likely that Chapuys would believe you to have changed your allegiance in such fashion."

"Me?" Rich laughs - a hollow, bitter sound, "The man who was a friend of the late Thomas More, only to perjure myself to bring him down? I am well aware of my reputation - a man who shall turn his coat at the first opportunity for personal advancement. I declared for Norfolk, and then for the Regent. It would startle no one that I would turn yet again in return for financial recompense."

"We shall keep this from the Council, I think." Cromwell muses, "But not from her Majesty; not only would she not appreciate such a matter being held from her, but she may well wish to make use of this communication channel as much as we shall."

"Besides," Rich adds, "to do otherwise shall almost certainly kill what little trust she has in me. I should not like to lose that, having gained it."

"Then we shall speak to her of it at the first opportunity. After the outcome of this morning's meeting, she shall certainly wish to view my draft proclamation."

"The one that you have not yet written?"

Cromwell sighs, "Yes. The one that I have not yet written."

"Would some assistance be useful?"

"On this occasion - yes, I think it most certainly would."

* * *

The horse and the pony run together, though not too fast, as the pony must canter in order to keep up with the trot of the horse. In spite of Elizabeth's growing skill, Sir Anthony still rides to the rear in case of any danger, while Anne is alongside her daughter, revelling in the sheer pleasure of the ride.

Perhaps she should be reading papers, or working upon some policy or other - but she has been all-but imprisoned in her study for several days in a row, immersed in documents of almost unparalleled dullness, while Elizabeth has been equally immersed in grammar and mathematics. Time for them both to escape into the park for a while.

The sun is warm, the air vivid with birdsong, and Anne has taken care to ensure that their route shall take them to a very nice clearing in which they shall dine together under an awning. Elizabeth is unaware of the plan, but she shall delight in the surprise, particularly as little Jane Radcliffe shall be there, delivered by her father so that the girls can play together well away from prying eyes in the palace. Sussex has also promised to ensure that Castor and Pollux shall be there, so Anne anticipates remaining out in the parkland for much of the rest of the day.

Their conversation has been entirely in French, as Elizabeth's fluency matches her mother's now, though her writing still needs improvement. Browne is utterly incompetent in the language, and thus they are able to enjoy some privacy as they talk together. Had it been Mr Cromwell, of course, they would be rather helpless, for he speaks all of the languages that Elizabeth is being taught - including the ones that Anne does not.

For a moment, Anne is distracted by the memory of riding beside her father when she was as small as Elizabeth is now. He had always been so pleased with her progress on horseback, and even though his visits home were rare - thanks to his work as a diplomat - he always took the time to ride with her in the park at Hever, once she had moved there permanently from Blickling. It is hard to remember those far-off days - a time when she truly felt secure, and wholly surrounded by the love of a parent. He had loved her then; a pretty child with so much life…

And now she is a Queen - and he despises the very air that she breathes.

"What is wrong, Mama?" Elizabeth's voice interrupts her reverie, "Why do you look so sad?"

"Forgive me, _ma cherie_ ," She sighs, "It is nothing but memories of a time long ago. I have only to look at you to be happy again."

She smiles as Elizabeth looks delighted, "Can we go faster, Mama?"

"Just a little, my precious girl. I was not permitted to ride at more than a canter when I was as small as you - I thought myself a better rider than they would let me be. Riding at a gallop showed me that I was wrong, and I was lucky to be left only with bruises from my fall."

Elizabeth looks shocked, "You fell from a horse, Mama?" As she has never done so - a consequence of the great care taken to prevent it - she seems astounded that such a thing is possible.

"I was very young, Elizabeth. I had not learned how to balance upon a horse; for there were no young grooms walking alongside to right me if I began to slip."

"For you were not Queen." The girl says, "But I am, so they walked beside me."

Anne nods, "Yes, my darling. You are Queen - but I was not. I was not even a princess - I only became Queen because I married your Papa."

Elizabeth looks astounded, "You were not a princess, Mama?"

"Indeed I was not - but Mr Cranmer anointed me with holy oil, just as he anointed you - and your Papa set the crown of England upon my head. And thus I became a Queen."

"If you were not a princess, Mama - why did Papa marry you? He was the King, and I know that I must marry a Prince, or a King, for I am a Queen."

"My goodness, Elizabeth, you are most acute!" She smiles at her, "Papa married me because he saw me, and fell in love with me - and he was determined to make me his Queen."

The child nods, excited, "And you loved him back, did you not, Mama?"

She does not answer, but instead smiles, allowing the child to make what she will of her reaction. In the time that has passed since her widowhood began, she has had much time for thought upon her heart and mind when that great dance of Courtly Love led to the placing of a crown upon her head. She knows her mind more thoroughly now, and an unpalatable truth that she wishes she did not have to accept. There is no need to tell Elizabeth the truth - that she did not love the man who first chased her with such determination. No, her heart belonged entirely to Henry Percy; and her refusal to be a mistress was born as much from the shattering of their betrothal as a determination to retain her honour.

There was something that she _believed_ to be love - a regard and respect that she convinced herself was the true form of conjugal relations in place of the deep, passionate adoration she had held for that dear young man. That had come later - after Henry had worked so hard to seduce her - but when it came, she embraced it truly and absolutely, swallowing up her resentment and anger and setting that aside even before that crown was set upon her head. It seemed at the time that she had found love with the King - and she did not doubt it even as she learned of his death; but in the passing time, her memories of those days becomes hazy, and her experiences as Regent force her to review them in an altogether sharper light. In spite of all that followed, she does not regret her choices - for the result of that love rides beside her, and has made her world complete. Whatever is to come in the future, she is interested only in one thing - ensuring that her daughter's eventual marriage shall be happy, as much as beneficial to England.

Anne is not surprised to see that her daughter is delighted to discover the awning, and the fine repast set out for her pleasure, while little Jane Radcliffe is already playing with Castor and Pollux under the watchful eye of her father. It is not long before the pair are happily chattering to one another, while they recline on cushions and feast upon a mutton pie encased in a thick pastry coffin. If only it could always be like this.

Dinner consumed, the two girls are soon at play, laughing and throwing sticks for the two dogs to retrieve, while Anne sits back and watches them.

"They are happy together, are they not, my Lord?" she smiles at Sussex, who is watching his young daughter with equal fondness. She is relieved to see it - girls are not favoured, given that they take property out of the family when they marry, but this little one is clearly as valued as she once was. But is no longer.

Sussex nods, "I am glad of it. She is the last of my brood - I have three sons to carry on my name, but she is precious, for she is so reminiscent of my late Margaret." Even though he has married again, to Mary Arundell, he still carries a small token given to him by his second wife.

They lapse into silence, neither wishing to spoil the mood of the afternoon with discussions of politics, instead choosing to enjoy the happy games of the two girls. The combination of a good dinner, a morning upon horseback, and the warmth of the afternoon is making her drowsy, and she is most tempted to settle back upon the cushions to enjoy a brief nap. Yes - there are far too few such times to enjoy.

Evening is drawing in as the small entourage return to the Palace, and Mistress Champernowne carries a sleepy Queen of England to her chambers to prepare her for bed, "Sleep well, my precious daughter."

"I shall, Mama." Elizabeth yawns.

"Madge, I shall sup in private tonight." Anne turns to Margery, "Please could you secure something light - broth for choice."

"Yes, Majesty." Madge curtseys, "Mr Cromwell sent a message this afternoon to offer his apologies, for he has been overtaken by work and has only completed the proclamation that you requested today. He asks to meet with you upon the morrow to discuss it."

She smiles, "Of course he has." She knows that he has struggled to write a document that goes utterly against his principles, "Send Matthew in."

Dispatching her steward to invite her Lord Treasurer to meet with her in the morning, she settles down to await her supper, and yawns, tiredly.

Yes, there are far too few days like this.

* * *

Cromwell's expression is rather stiff, but she is expecting that, and does not comment. Rich, beside him, is far less uncomfortable with the document they have set before her, as he would prefer at least to some extent to retain his own rather lax adherence to the Roman faith. In spite of her own enthusiasm for reform, that pragmatic sense within her is prompting Anne to accept that it does no one any good to force others to turn away from something that is the centre of their world. Best to let her Subjects swear their loyalty to England for matters temporal, and leave the spiritual matters to their own devices. The last thing she wishes to do is create an atmosphere of religious strife that shall work itself into a tangle that her daughter shall be forced to attempt to unravel.

She has seen enough work by the two men who stand before her to know who is responsible for which part of the text, as each has their own style and turn of words. Consequently, it is clear to her that the most conciliatory passages have been written by Rich, and have probably toned down altogether more combative text that Cromwell inserted. In most matters, he is as determinedly pragmatic as she - but his commitment to the reformation of faith in England rests very close to his heart, and his determination to remove popery from the realm verges almost upon a vocation. Almost as though he has a personal reason to do it.

"Render unto Caesar." She says, quietly, as she raises her eyes from the proclamation, "Thank you, Gentlemen. Much as I should wish to free all Englishmen from the yoke of Rome, I know that many are too habituated to the burden to feel able to set it down, and I am not an inquisitor. We all remember the cruel punishments that are set upon those who challenge the corruption of Rome - and I shall not free us from that through the application of equally cruel punishments. We are better than that, are we not?"

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell says, rather dolefully. She can see that, in spite of his resentment, he knows that she is right to do so, and the argument that it is the better way is certainly affecting him.

"Please - be seated." She smiles at them, indicating to Matthew to bring over a brace of chairs for them, "I suspect that you have more tidings than merely the proclamation."

"We do, Majesty." Cromwell looks relieved to be able to set aside the proclamation, "It appears that the Imperial Ambassador has encountered considerable difficulties in securing information for his master since your actions united the Council and reduced the danger of factions."

"And whom has he approached?" Anne asks, though it is not hard to guess.

"He approached me, Majesty." Rich admits, a little embarrassed.

"I trust you accepted?"

The embarrassment changes to a smile, "For three hundred ducats a month? I should have been a madman to refuse."

"The price of desperation." Cromwell adds, an equal smile upon his face - the first since they arrived in her chamber, "Our only true challenge is to decide what information to release. It must be of sufficient value to tempt Chapuys, but not so vital that it harm the security of the Realm."

"I think it would be most useful to let news of the proclamation escape prior to its formal announcement," Anne muses, "to ensure that the discovery that those who follow the Catholic faith are free from persecution in England, even as those who do not are cruelly persecuted upon the continent. I should love to know what that old fool Paul shall think of _that_."

"I shall see to it, Majesty." Rich promises, cheerfully, "I think that shall certainly be worthy of three hundred ducats."

"Indeed." Anne smiles at him, "Which, I assume, shall be donated in its entirety to the poor?"

The smile slips, and then he sighs, "Yes, Majesty." Rising, he bows, and departs in search of Chapuys.

"That was rather cruel, was it not, Majesty?" Cromwell asks, still smiling.

"It shall do him no harm. He is quite wealthy enough as it is." Anne smiles, then looks at him more incisively, "Forgive me for asking, but I feel that I must do so. Your reasons for wishing to stamp out the Roman faith - they appear to be rather more personal than most."

"I should prefer not to discuss it, Majesty." He says, rather more quietly, but she cannot fail to miss it: a sudden flash of pain in his eyes.

"Who was she?" Anne asks gently. It could not be clearer that he is talking of a lost love.

He stays silent for a considerable time, his expression one of conflict as he balances the question of his Queen with the personal pain of answering it.

"Her name was Benedetta." He says, eventually, "I was barely eighteen years of age when I saw her amidst the congregation of a church in Florence; and I was immediately smitten. There was no hope for us, of course, for she was of a noble family, and I was a penniless apprentice to a banker. I would have died for her…" his voice trails off, his eyes suddenly damp with tears.

"I am sorry," Anne whispers, "I did not mean to raise sad memories."

He shakes his head, "We were not fool enough to think that there was any future in our love - and we did nothing for which any should be ashamed, for she was a virtuous young woman, and my love for her was chaste. Indeed, we were not discovered - it was the act of another that shattered our childish idyll. Her mother's youngest brother had designs upon her, but sought only her maidenhead, not her hand. What protection could I give her? I was nothing - but she was remarkable in her courage and fortitude. She would not permit him to touch her, and turned to her priest for his protection."

His expression darkens now, and Anne realises that he is about to reveal his true reason for his hatred of Rome.

"His protection was to denounce her as a sinful creature, and demand that her parents shut her away in a nunnery. A punishment for her beauty, which had inflamed a man to sin by its mere existence. Her uncle's lust for her was blamed not upon his wandering loins, but upon her gentle countenance - and thus it must be hidden to prevent any man from being induced to sin by the mere act of laying eyes upon it." His head lowered, Anne sees a drop fall from his face and splatter upon the tabletop, "Her last hope was to turn to the Cardinal of Florence - who did naught but demand that she obey her parents and the will of the Church. She fled from him in despair, for she had done nothing to earn her incarceration - and came to me, for she knew that I would not see her so. But she was stopped before she could reach me - and the last I saw of her was her being taken away, pleading to the Virgin for her deliverance."

In spite of herself, Anne reaches out to rest a hand upon his arm. He does not withdraw it, but continues to stare downwards, "In that single moment, I lost my faith - for what Church condemns an innocent for the sin of the guilty? It was only later, as I moved amongst the northern nations of Europe, that I discovered that other men saw the Roman church as I did - and I returned to the fold. I had turned my back upon God - but He had not turned His back upon me."

"Forgive me, Mr Cromwell. My curiosity has caused you pain."

He raises his eyes again, "Perhaps - but it is maybe better that you understand now why it is so hard for me to accommodate the Popish religion in England. I returned from the continent, entered the legal profession and married my late wife. Do not mistake me - I loved my Elizabeth, and mourned her deeply when the sweat took her from me. But equally, Benedetta lived in a small shrine in my heart, where she resides still. I never knew what became of her."

"I am truly sorry."

Slowly, a smile crosses his features, "Thank you, Majesty. I am angered, yes - but to punish her Majesty's Catholic subjects for their continual determination to be subservient to the Vicar of Rome makes me no better than those who punished my poor Benedetta for being a beauty. And we are better than that, are we not?" He seems quite eager to believe that.

"Yes, Mr Treasurer. We are better than that." She confirms.

* * *

Chapuys stares at Rich, in astonishment, "She would do such a thing as this?"

"Would? Nay, she _has_ , Excellency. The proclamation shall be made within the next two days."

The pair stand together at the balustrade of the river wall, looking out across the busy waters from the Privy Garden, their only witness a single robin.

"Most intriguing. It seems that she fears the power of the Church if she has no wish to act against it."

Rich shrugs, "Not remotely. She has decided to allow it to enjoy a brief remnant of life, while the education of the young shall eradicate it slowly, and quietly. The followers of the _true_ faith shall be permitted to continue to do so - in the expectation that the young that follow them shall be trained to abjure it, and instead embrace heresy: secure in the knowledge that it is no longer a crime."

"Ah yes. Falsely absolving people of the sin of heresy." Chapuys scoffs, "Removing a law does not remove the sin."

"Indeed it does not."

"I think that this is most useful, Mr Rich. I look forward to a most worthwhile arrangement between us - and I can assure you that his Imperial Majesty shall be pleased to arrange the pension that was agreed."

"Speaking of that." Rich muses, frowning slightly as though deep in thought, "Perhaps - if I were to reduce the price, you would be willing to share information with me that might be of use. If I am aware of his Imperial Majesty's thoughts, that might well assist me in ensuring that plans made by the council are turned to a more…beneficial…direction through my intercession?"

Chapuys looks at him, surprised at his suggestion - though not disagreeably so, "I shall raise the matter with the Emperor, Mr Rich. I think he shall be intrigued at such an offer. Until I receive his answer, our initial agreement shall stand."

Rich bows, politely, "Of course, Excellency."

Cromwell is busy at his desk as Rich returns to the offices, "He has taken the bait?"

"Absolutely. I await his answer over the reciprocal provision of information - but he is intrigued at the proclamation of a religious settlement, and shall ensure that the tidings are communicated to his master at the first opportunity."

"Good. I shall advise her Majesty, and we shall ensure that the news is presented to the people in the next two days. There seems to be little profit in delay."

"I have already claimed that it is imminent." Rich agrees, "The sooner the proclamation is made, the less likely it shall be that the Emperor of the Pope attempt to act in a manner that depicts it as a frantic attempt to mitigate any action upon their part. Do you also think it likely that a Bull is soon to emerge?"

"The repeal of the heresy laws seem sure to inspire a response; for we have given the people of England a licence to commit that which is still considered to be a sin. Even on the continent, most laws against Heresy have been enacted by legislatures rather than religious authorities. We have repealed our laws, and thus heretics have been granted free rein, have they not? Thereby removing the only means to stem the flow of heresy in England. Furthermore, to claim that both faiths are now to be permitted worsens matters further still, as it now permits apostasy as freely as heresy."

"So it is a mere matter of time." Rich muses.

"I should say so; and thus the sooner the proclamation is made, the better, in order to pre-empt any spoutings from Rome." Cromwell rises from his chair, "I shall collect Mr Cranmer - come, we shall obtain her Majesty's final approval, and ensure that the proclamation is made at the first opportunity."

* * *

" _Que est ista, que processit sicut sol. Et formosa tamquam Jerusalem viderunt eam filie Syon et beatam dixerunt et regine laudaverunt eam. Et sicut dies verni circundabant eam flores rosarum et lilia convalium_."

The voice of the young boy soars above a gentle consort of viols, the ancient tune of the responsory a balm to Anne's tired mind after a long day of consideration and work. In spite of her determination to bring about the reform of the Church, she has never lost her reverence for the holy Mother, and venerates the Virgin as she has always done. A Mother for a mother. A Queen for a queen. Another beautiful arrangement by the remarkable Mr Sacks.

"And the proclamation has been made, Mr Cromwell?" she asks, sorting her cards for another hand of Primero.

"In London, Coventry, Winchester, Norwich, Exeter, York and Durham, Majesty," He reports, doing likewise, "The parishes have all received communications from Canterbury, instructing them to preach upon the virtue of peaceful existence with one's neighbour in one English family. I cannot claim that we shall soothe all disputes between those who are for, or against, reform - but we have taken away any grounds to do so. And that is all that one can hope for."

"How long, do you think, before the word is truly out?" Lady Rochford asks, intrigued at the entire prospect of the proclamation, "Do you think it likely that it shall bring true peace to England?"

"We can but hope, Jane." Anne smiles at her, "We can but hope."

She does not notice the glance that Cromwell and Rochford exchange. Hope is a wondrous thing; but they must deal with expectations.

There are a few plates of comfits, and a flagon of sweet wine at their disposal, having supped in the Hall with the rest of the Court. In the absence of those long periods of leisure she knew when Henry lived, the evenings are her time of relaxation, even if she must do so in extensive company to protect her virtue. At least, at this drowsy time of the day, she can choose her companions.

Their conversation lightens, discussing foolish matters pertaining to the silly internal politics of the Court, until Michael enters, "Majesty, the Lord Privy Seal is without - he requests an audience."

Anne exchanges a glance with Cromwell; she does not share that close sense of trust with Rich that she shares with the Lord Treasurer, and thus he is in her evening company far less frequently. He would not have come here unprompted without a very good reason.

"Thank you Michael, show him in. Could you ask Matthew to fetch another glass, and a chair, please?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Rich's expression is very uncomfortable as he bows to Anne, then seats himself in the extra chair, "Forgive me, Majesty; I would not normally intrude upon you uninvited, but I have received tidings that may be of concern to you."

Anne frowns slightly, "From our new source of information?"

He nods, "The paper is yet to reach our shores, but I am assured of its existence - and, given my source, I have no reason to doubt it."

"Say on."

"It appears that the combination of your proclamation, and the repeal of the Heresy laws, have elicited a response from the Bishop of Rome, Majesty. A Papal Bull has been issued. While it has not yet been delivered to our shores, I have been granted a _précis_."

"Your source is, presumably, most keen for us to know of it." Anne smiles, dryly.

Wordlessly, Rich hands it over. It is clear that he has not opened it - but his expression suggests that he knows already what it says. Doubtless Chapuys took a great deal of pleasure in telling him.

Carefully, she breaks the seal and opens the document. Its length, despite being a reduced summary, ensures that she is silent for a considerable time, but all watch as her eyes widen, and her face pales.

"What is it, Majesty?" Jane is immediately concerned.

"The Vicar of Rome has indeed acted." She says, a little faintly, "He has excommunicated me, and my child, and threatens the same for all who are loyal to us. Furthermore, he has exhorted all English Catholics to remove the 'heretic child queen' and her 'known wanton' mother, and assured that they shall be absolved entirely when they shed our blood in doing so. Furthermore, he has declared the marriage between that blasted creature Mary and Gustav of Sweden to be null and void, as it was not carried out under the Roman rite, and orders her to be returned to England to rule as the true Queen. Whereupon she shall be married to a Catholic prince, while England is restored to Rome, and all heretics destroyed forthwith."

"Well." Rochford mutters, reaching for his glass, "When he moves, he does not do so by halves - does he?"

"He has excommunicated my daughter…" Anne whispers, "Called her a devil child."

"It matters not, sister. She is not under his jurisdiction - the Pope has no authority in England; she is the head of England's Church, and thus cannot be excommunicated."

Anne shakes her head, "No, George - you do not understand. He has told all of Christendom that she is denied God's love - and that her name is not in the Book of the Living. How could he do that to a child? A girl of a mere five years?"

"Because it is politically expedient to do so." Cromwell says, quietly, "in such circumstances, it matters not that the victim is a mere babe."

"Perhaps he seeks to provoke you to act punitively, Majesty." Rich adds, "To strike out in anger against your Catholic subjects."

"Then I shall not." Anne snaps, furiously, "I shall prove myself to be better than that vile, horrible old man who punishes an innocent child for the actions of others. Such a creature as he does not deserve to call himself a Prince of the Church. He has struck out in spite, and I will not - _will_ not - sink to his depths. We shall continue our reforms as we have planned - and the proclamation shall stand. No Englishman shall be punished for their faith - there shall be no burnings here. We shall set an example of how two faiths can exist together."

Cromwell smiles at her, a little sadly, "That, of course, depends upon whether the adherents to the two faiths are able to abide by such noble intentions, Majesty."

"Do you think me to be wrong?"

He shakes his head, "No, Majesty. Much as I despise the Roman faith, you are right - the shedding of blood is no way to settle this matter. To claim that the Church is brutal in its condemnation of men that it calls heretics, only to act in the same way is the truest act of hypocrisy. Did not our Lord forbid us to say 'brother, let me clear that speck from your eye' while we did not see the log in our own eye?"

"While the Roman Church does so, we must not." Anne says, firmly, then looks at him, a slight smile playing across her lips, "A revolution, perhaps?"

"I am not sure, Majesty. Perhaps the perspective of a woman; for no man could fail to be provoked by such a document as this."

As Henry would have been. The threat of excommunication had been ever present throughout his dispute with the church, and indeed a Bull had been prepared, only to be suspended in the hope that he would renounce his former activities and come back to the Church. Perhaps he might have done - but now he is dead, and they shall never know. Cromwell watches as Anne resumes her perusal of her cards, though he can see that she has been shaken by the Pope's act against her - but mostly against her daughter. In spite of their acts of reformation, and the consecration of Elizabeth as the Head of the Church in England, excommunication by the Pope remains a shocking last sanction that even a reformed Christian might dread. No indeed, Henry would not have stood for this - and the precipitate action that would have followed is something he fears to imagine. That Anne refuses to play such a destructive game is a relief for England; but how long that can continue, he cannot begin to guess.

All they can hope for is that England's Catholics shall ignore the Bull - and that they shall value the life of their tiny Queen more highly than the spite-ridden pronouncements of an elderly man in Rome.

Whether he likes it or not - the coming days shall tell him which way England shall go.


	32. A Parade of Pilgrims

Thomas Wriothesley is seated at a heavy desk surrounded by mountains of papers, his expression very grim. Much as the work with which he has been tasked suits his methodical mind and skills of organisation, it grieves him nonetheless, for his adherence to reform is cosmetic only: a mask he wears to win greater rewards for himself. But then, who does not do so in this place?

The Commissioners are reporting sums of wealth, plate, jewels and fine fabrics that are truly shocking. While many houses are suffering somewhat as the numbers of brothers entering their cloisters continues to fall, the lands and holdings of most are sufficient to keep them in good repair even if the number of tonsured men within them is less than half that of the population a hundred years ago.

There is, however, one matter over which he does not feel comfortable making pronouncements, and he looks up as Cromwell approaches him, relieved to not have to go in search of the man.

Cromwell's eyes widen at the sheer volumes of papers upon the Chancellor's desk, "Merciful heavens, Mr Wriothesley, that is a fearsome accumulation of work. Perhaps I should assign more clerks to aid you?"

In spite of his dislike of the Treasurer, Wriothesley is not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth, "That would be appreciated, Mr Cromwell. As quickly as I work my way though the reports that are delivered to me, ten more arrive for each one that I complete."

"I shall see to it immediately. Her Majesty the Regent is keen to know how matters proceed in terms of wealth confiscated for restoration to those more deserving of it."

Wriothesley conceals a scowl at such an interpretation of what he still considers - at least in part - to be theft, "I should appreciate it. But I think it best to ask - the Commissioners are finding reliquaries in large numbers, for each of the Monasteries seems to house at least one relic."

Cromwell shakes his head in disgust; items doubtless of dubious origin used solely to persuade the gullible and desperate that they should waste what little coin they have in hopes of benedictions from a dead saint, "Have them gather the items together in a suitable space. Given the reverence held for them, it is best to use somewhere consecrated to avoid public anger. Once we have gathered them all, we can decide what is to be done with them."

Wriothesley nods, relieved that Cromwell has not demanded that everything be cast upon a bonfire, "I shall set aside the nave of St Margaret's at Westminster."

He is entirely unaware that, were he not required to answer for his actions to the Regent, Cromwell would almost certainly have done _exactly_ that.

Retiring to his own desk, Cromwell muses over the thought. Henry would have expected it, of course - probably in retaliation for that deferred excommunication - but Anne is not Henry, and is less keen to inspire anger and ire by acting punitively and without good reason. Her position, while far stronger than it was two years ago, remains balanced upon a very fine edge - it would serve her daughter most ill were she to topple herself through a foolish act of spite. Thank God she knows it.

Sadleir approaches, a paper in hand, "News from Sweden, Mr Cromwell."

Intrigued, Cromwell takes the paper and breaks the seal, showing it to be from the English embassy, and reads, "Damnation. Another miscarriage."

"Another?" Sadleir stares, shocked. Twice now, Mary has conceived, and twice that hoped for child has died - this one flooded from her womb in a torrent of bloody matter. Just as happened with her mother, it seems, "What is Gustav's view?"

"He has not expressed one, other than to state that they shall try again. Elsewhere, however, there are rumours amongst the more highly placed courtiers that she is deliberately ending her pregnancies in hopes of gaining an annulment so that she can leave Sweden and flee to a country still steeped in popery." Cromwell mutters as he peruses the document.

"That is rank nonsense - a woman as pious and devout as she would _never_ do such a thing!" Sadleir is quite scandalised at the suggestion.

"We know from our own experiences that that is so, Mr Sadleir, for her mother was as keen to bear a boy for Henry as he was to gain one. Did not our own Majesty suffer such a cruel loss twice?" Cromwell sighs, "No, I think as you do. Mary would never deliberately end the life of a child in her womb. Even were she not a dutiful wife - as she was taught to be - her piety would forbid it."

Sadleir sinks into a chair, his expression sad, "That poor woman. To be robbed of a longed for babe is a cruel thing."

Cromwell sighs, and nods, "Indeed. Even though it would trap her in Sweden for the rest of her days, she would not look for a pregnancy to fail. She was raised - at least at first - as a princess of the Blood, and taught that her duty, nay, her very _existence_ was created entirely for the bearing of sons to a King. She was never promised the love of a husband - or the right to refuse her chosen spouse. Thus she would have done her duty without hesitation. And this, it seems, is her reward."

* * *

Anne reads the paper, and sighs as Cromwell did, "The poor girl. No matter how I despised her when she was set against me; no matter how deeply she generated spite in my heart, I would not wish this upon her - for I, too, know the agony of a lost babe."

"King Gustav has not indicated that he would do so - indeed he has stated quite the opposite - but it is whispered amongst his courtiers that he should repudiate her, annul their marriage and seek a more fertile Queen." Cromwell admits, quietly, "As Sweden has also abjured the Pope, his own Archbishop could do it - though it would not be easy, for their marriage is legally valid, and the failure of the pregnancies indicates that it has been consummated. The days when Kings could simply set aside a wife are past - and I am not sure that such things happened outside of legends as it is. The institution of marriage remains sacrosanct even for those of us who no longer prostrate ourselves towards Rome. He cannot set her aside - and thus they shall, as he has stated, try again."

Anne rises from her chair, "I think I shall take a turn around the Privy Gardens, Mr Cromwell. Walk with me." She turns and nods to Margery and Nan, who also rise in order to follow behind at a discreet distance.

"What are we to do if she continues to fail to produce an heir?" she asks, quietly, as they crunch their way along a gravelled path between fragrant roses, "While repudiation is no longer likely, there is still the risk that matters shall be expedited through assassination. What if she were to be poisoned, and her death given out as being of a fever?"

"Forgive me for saying so, Majesty, but would that not settle our problems at a stroke? Even though she is in Sweden, and far from us; were she to be sent from there, she would be likely to travel amongst the Courts of Europe in hopes of securing support to invade England for the Roman Church and end all heresy and apostasy. Given that he has now declared against you, Majesty, there is a greater likelihood that he would agree to such an enterprise. Were she to die, that would not happen."

Anne stops, and stares at him, "You would wish such a thing upon her?"

"As God is my witness, Majesty, I would not." He says, shaking his head with a slight frown, "I merely state that, were another to do so independently of our interests, it would serve us well in that context. It would not, however, serve us well in terms of our alliance with Sweden - for it would end it at a stroke, and our allies are too few in number to risk the loss should our neighbours decide that our time of apostasy should end, and send armies to bring us back into the fold. No, it serves us best that she be alive. More so if she can bring a child to term. I think it best that we do not pray for an assassin - nay, we pray fervently for a son."

They resume their walk, "How strange." Anne muses, "There was a time when I longed for her death - even thought perhaps that I might order it - but now I pray not only that she lives, but that she prospers and brings forth a son for her Kingdom. When she was a thorn in my side, I could not have imagined such a thing."

"Life has a strange habit of driving us to act in so contrary a fashion." Cromwell agrees.

"Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Even now she guides my actions in one way or another." Anne looks at him again, "And what of the stone that Paul threw in the Pool of England when he issued that Bull against me? Do the ripples subside, or continue to travel?"

He pauses, gathering his thoughts, "It is difficult to say, Majesty. In the weeks that have passed since it was made public, there has been little comment that I have been able to discover. Those men that I have watching the more sizeable congregations in London have not reported discussions upon it: those who might be driven to do so are less willing, for they know that they are permitted to practise their faith without interference, and that it is at your command. Thus they are content to worship as they have always done, and leave the arguments over who is right to other, more highly placed individuals. That they are free to celebrate the Roman rite without fear of censure or punishment seems to have tempered their desire to remove you from the Throne. Besides," he adds, smiling slightly, "It is hard for an Englishman to obey the demands of a foreigner."

"It is not that simple, is it?"

"No, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I do not doubt that there are some who would do so out of a desire to stamp out all forms of heresy, even in the face of acceptance that the souls of men are theirs to do with as they will in communication with God. The Church has held great power for many generations, and to be obliged to relinquish that power to Princes is a bitter meal to swallow. For there to be no fight to keep what it has held seems impossible - even for those who claim to be subservient to God, and servants of man. None are immune to the insidious pleasure of holding power over the lives of others, and dictating all aspects of their lives."

"Even you?" Anne smiles at him.

"Even me."

"And me." She admits, then, "It is hard to hold power, and not to be seduced by it. Each day, I still continue to remind myself when I wake that my duty is limited in time. Even as I speak my morning devotions, I beseech God to remind me at all times that I am but the Regent - and it is Elizabeth who is the true Queen of this realm. For I know that, as long as the power is in my hands, the desire to relinquish it to another - even my own flesh and blood - is weak, and is weakened as my strength grows. There is an ever present danger that I shall decide to cling to it: I cannot allow that to happen. There are still men alive who fought in the wars that broke out when a man sought power that lay in the hands of another."

"The law that governs Elizabeth's succession precludes such a thing, Majesty. As does your Coronation Oath."

"Do not think that I could not be a tyrant, Mr Cromwell. Until you have held power such as this, you cannot imagine the strength of its call upon you. It was that call that drove Mary to attempt to raise England against me, and it speaks in my ear each day - telling me to protect Elizabeth from the burden, to let her wear the Crown as but a mere bauble. Remember that I have told you this, Mr Cromwell. Remind me of it each and every day." Her expression is fearful now, "Its call is strong - dangerously strong, and I am not immune from it - but the day when I believe that I am grows ever nearer, and I must fight to ensure that day never comes."

"If that is your wish, Majesty."

"And what of the ongoing works to close the religious houses?" Anne resumes her swifter stride, clearly intent upon changing the subject.

"We are receiving reports from the commissioners on a daily basis, Majesty. The number of relics that are being recovered shall be something of an issue, I think. His late Majesty would have certainly had them destroyed - but we were not sure of your view. Thus they are being removed from the Houses and brought to London, to reside within the walls of the Church of St Margaret, alongside the Abbey Church at Westminster."

"On consecrated ground." Anne murmurs, "A wise choice - even if they are mouldering items of clothing, and pieces of bones?"

He nods, "What is your intention for them?"

"That all remains that are human be interred with appropriate deference, while any remains that are from animals shall be incinerated. Items shall be evaluated for their worth, and any monies raised from their sale shall be given to the poor."

"Yes, Majesty."

"The reliquaries should also be sold."

"As you wish, Majesty."

"I do." She smiles at him, "If only such items could work miracles as people hope. But I have never seen a miracle inspired by a finger bone."

Cromwell pauses, "There is…one…shrine that we have not considered yet."

She does not need to ask which one, "Becket."

"I think it shall be easier to consign the Confessor to a proper grave than a man martyred by the angry demands of a King." He admits, "To despoil any shrine carries an element of risk that it shall inflame those who would approach it as a pilgrim - but Canterbury is at the centre of England's Church. If we are to close the shrine, then we must do so with great care, and suitable deference to the mortal remains of the late Archbishop. While I do not consider his bones capable of intercession, I equally do not think it right that they should be removed from the tomb as though they were the remains of a beast."

"Nor do I, Mr Cromwell." Anne agrees, "Ensure that his remains are interred in a suitable grave within the precincts of the Cathedral, but equally ensure that there is no great tomb raised atop them. They are the mortal remains of a mere man, nothing more, nothing less."

"I shall see to it."

She smiles as he bows and withdraws. If she must tolerate the Roman faith within her realm, then so be it - but there shall be no more idolatry. Let the dead be dead - and grant miracles back to the One from whom they come. Pleased that matters are progressing so well, she turns and makes her own way back to her apartments.

* * *

The light coming in from the great east window of the church of St Margaret is alive with colours courtesy of a Flemish artisan - whose work was installed barely thirty years ago. Beneath are rows and rows of objects, fabrics and boxes, all brought to this place from across England and Wales, items that drew pilgrims to the Abbeys, and filled their coffers in the process. No religious house, after all, is complete without something of holy origin to encourage visitors to empty their scrips.

The worst exhibits are, naturally, the ones that are clearly intended to deceive those who come to see them. So far, Cromwell has found twelve reliquaries that contain supposedly incorrupt, holy blood that is not even the blood of a man, but instead the blood of some animal or other, five vials of oil supposedly exuded from saint's corpses that seem to have no corpse to provide the contents, and even a skull in a box that moves only when a man standing to the rear turns a small handle. How is it that the Church can truly have so utterly abandoned the second commandment? How can they truly pretend that these items are not graven images? To the pilgrims, they are tangible evidence of that which is entirely _in_ tangible. Surely faith can be placed in something that is not set before them in a gold-girded box?

He sighs to himself. There is a reason for such ignorance, of course: who amongst the peasantry has ever been taught to read, or to think for themselves? No - they are not permitted to learn, or to read the word of God. It is no surprise to him that the poorest of folk rely upon such things as these in the absence of true understanding. At least that can be changed.

"What are we to do with all of this?" The recently appointed Rector, a nervous looking man with a kindly countenance is fidgeting with the lace of his surplice, looking around worriedly at the enormous collection of items, "Has her Majesty decreed their fate?"

Cromwell nods, "The human remains shall be re-buried with appropriate deference, while the animal remains - of which there seem to be rather more than even I expected - shall be buried in a pit. The items of value shall be sold, and the proceeds donated to the poor of the parishes of least means. The wealth that these items generated for the Houses that contained them was never granted to those most in need. The people of England deserve to know it."

The Rector shuffles slightly, and then indicates that Cromwell join him in a small alcove, "I have already been approached by representatives from several sources - the Emperor, Rome, even some Houses in France. All seek to retrieve these items and store them amongst their existing reliquaries.”

Cromwell's eyebrows rise in surprise, "I presume they expect these items to be donated?"

"Yes, Mr Cromwell. I believe the King of France has also expressed an interest in the most valuable items for his personal collection."

"I think not." Cromwell shakes his head, "To grant these items to others suggests that we regard them to be greater than they are. Most of the items in this building cannot be demonstrated to be what they are claimed to be - and I shall not be party to ongoing deception of innocent burghers who exchange their hard-earned wages for false benedictions. I suspect that her Majesty would be equally shocked at such behaviour."

"Yes, Mr Cromwell."

Emerging from the alcove, Cromwell continues to wander along the rows of tables, examining the items retrieved from the Houses that are claimed to be of holy origin. Supposed thorns from the Crown of Thorns, fragments of wood that are claimed to come from the True Cross. A saint's vestment, finger bones, toe bones - even fragments of ribs or skulls. He has engaged a learned doctor to examine the bones, and already he has set aside a holy thigh-bone that originally belonged to a calf, a rib that was probably from the chest of a pig, and a piece of skull that is too flattened to belong to a man - but instead is likely to have come from the skull of a horse.

Oh, there are human remains, of course - plenty of them. Additional to the extraordinary number of desiccated body parts, bones and vials of fluid, more than ten coffins lie within the Chancel, each draped with a black cloth out of respect for the occupant. Holy or not, they were living souls once - but instead of being laid to rest, they were enclosed in a box and set out for people to reach in and touch in hopes of blessings or cures. In all of his years of life, he has met many pilgrims - but never once met any that were cured by the saint to whom they presented themselves. Somehow, those miracles always happened to other people.

Shuddering, he turns and makes his way back along the nave to where Wriothesley is consulting a long, long list, "Is this everything?"

"No, Mr Cromwell. Far from it - there are still a number of houses yet to be visited, and closed. His Grace of Canterbury is currently being petitioned by the congregation to spare the shrine of Becket, and thus asks that we wait until he can resolve the matter."

He can understand that. While not the holiest of all the shrines of England, Canterbury is the seat of the English Church: the place where St Augustine himself brought the faith of Christ to Englishmen; and is venerated as such. To remove Becket's bones from their resting place shall inflame a great number of people, not to mention stir the ire of overseas powers who are ever eager for an excuse to claim England for their own.How strange to think that a man so despised when he lived could become so revered by the simple act of managing to die inside his Cathedral rather than outside it.

"Very well. I think that I shall travel there and consult with him. There may be a means of achieving compromise, in that the closure of the shrine is undertaken with a degree of deference that shall calm those who still believe that dust-strewn bones can work wonders."

"As you wish." Wriothesley bows deferentially, then returns to his list.

It is only a short walk back to Whitehall, and thus he has not come on horseback. Not on a fine day such as this, the last of the summer bathing the walls of the church in warmth that is most pleasant. Instead, he makes his way back to the palace, making plans for his journey to Canterbury. It shall take a day, of course, and he shall need accommodation. Better, then to write first and warn Cranmer that he is coming, rather than be obliged to seek a bed for the night in whatever rude inn he can find.

Rich is hovering near his desk when he returns, once again wringing his hands and looking distinctly nervous. Oh God - now what?

"Mr Rich? How long have you been standing there?"

"It is of no matter - we have received word from Sevenoaks, one of the Sheriffs has observed growing numbers of people travelling through with the intention of attending the shrine at Canterbury. It seems that they intend to give their lives to protect it."

Cromwell stares at him, "Pilgrims?"

"In growing numbers."

"Then I shall not travel there alone. You shall join me, and Ralph. I shall seek an audience with her Majesty. Sent word to York - I do not wish to see this contagion spread. Ask Ralph to send word to the appropriate contacts to investigate the degree of existing infection. He shall know who to approach."

"I shall see to it." It seems that orders to act are always helpful in stirring Rich from his fears. A mind as active as his is always keen to become over-anxious, and the best way to combat it is to give him something to do.

Now he must ensure he does not end up in the same state.

* * *

"They call themselves pilgrims?" Anne asks, frowning slightly.

"Yes, Majesty. Though I am yet to witness a pilgrimage that carries sharpened farm implements. It seems that they are more an army, and wish to defend the bones of Becket with their own lives."

"How far has this spread?" She rises from her chair and begins to pace back and forth, though at least she has not slapped him. Henry would certainly have done so by now.

"It is difficult to say, Majesty. We have only just received word that it is taking place. I have set Mr Sadleir to work upon investigating, while Mr Rich shall contact York to ensure that there is no equal activity in the North."

"We must not act punitively, Mr Cromwell. The people do this out of a misguided desire to protect a skeleton." She turns, "To whom do they apportion blame for this?"

Cromwell looks uncomfortable, "I fear I do not know, Majesty. I suspect that it shall be men such as I, however. We shall be accused of giving false counsel to a woman who should not be blamed for her ignorance." At least, that is his hope - they have worked so hard to end the perception of the Regent as a godless whore.

"What is your intention?"

"I had planned to go to Canterbury myself - taking Mr Rich and Mr Sadleir; but I begin to wonder if that is wise. Perhaps a force of armed men might be more appropriate."

"Did I not say we must not act punitively? No. Unless it is inevitable, I shall not ask Englishmen to take up arms against their brothers. First we must identify those who speak for these 'pilgrims' and then speak to them. I shall take action against them only if they are truly traitors."

Cromwell swallows, "Forgive me, Majesty - but it may not be possible to do so. If they refuse to accept that the shrine must be closed, then they shall inevitably be traitors in the eyes of the law. There may be no alternative but to treat them as such."

She stares at him, a little helplessly, "So, if I accede to their demands, I shall be seen as weak - but if I do not, I must destroy them and make martyrs of them."

He does not answer. It was going to happen eventually - a situation in which there is no resolution that shall serve to suit all parties. She must act resolutely, and with absolute determination - but if she accedes to the demands of these men in the face of opposition to her policy to reform the English Church, then she is weakened. But if she does not, then she turns against her policy of religious acceptance - and also creates martyrs.

"Then I must also go."

"No, Majesty. Not at this time - I do not recommend that you…"

"I have no choice, Mr Cromwell. I must face this myself, and speak to these people myself. I cannot deal with such men through intermediaries - not in a matter such as this." She looks at his expression, "Oh do not think I am fool enough to stand before a crowd - even I am not so naïve as that. I shall take up residence in the Archbishop's Palace and meet the leaders of this pilgrimage there. Southampton proved more than capable of operating the government in my absence on progress, and he can do so again. I shall travel with you, and the Lord Privy Seal, as my advisers. Mr Sadleir shall be my Secretary."

"Then at least permit me to investigate how much this has spread, Majesty. If it is not safe for you to emerge, then it is better that we identify the ringleaders and bring them to you here."

"And have rumours spread that I have dispatched them to the block without even seeing them? No, Mr Cromwell. I must confront this myself. I shall not have my will interpreted by others, not when the stakes are as high as this. It is my intention to grant the remains of Becket a proper, decent funeral with appropriate Christian rites - not to destroy them. They do not warrant veneration - that belongs to God."

There is no arguing with her. He can see that - not now that her mind is truly made up. Sighing, Cromwell bows, "Yes, Majesty. I shall investigate the spread of this…pilgrimage, and advise you as soon as I am more able to ascertain how safe it shall be for you to travel."

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

He returns to the offices in a state of anxiety not that dissimilar to that which he observed in Rich upon his return to the Palace. Damnation - much as he admires her determination to confront this matter, to do so herself is an act of madness. She is the Regent - standing in the stead of God's anointed Queen. There is a lustre of monarchy about those who reside within these walls that sets them apart from those who walk outside them - and to stand before them can do nothing more than wither that sheen away…

Sadleir is present, of course - and now Rochford has arrived, summoned no doubt by the rumours that are almost certainly already circulating, "What is happening? Is it an insurrection?"

"At this time, it is impossible to say." Cromwell admits, suddenly very, very tired, "Those who speak of it call it a pilgrimage."

"Of course it is." Rochford snorts, dismissively.

"Indeed. A pilgrimage that is most well armed." Sadleir agrees, "Another messenger arrived while you were gone, Mr Cromwell - it seems that many are also congregating at St Albans, seeking the blessing of England's first Martyr to protect the remains of Becket."

Cromwell sinks into his chair, "And have any of them sought the blessing of God?"

"I imagine they consider that to follow as equally as that of the saint."

"Visiting a grave to persuade themselves of the virtue of protecting a skeleton. Such is the wonder of no education." He snaps, "Would they do something so foolish if they looked beyond the words of priests and sought out God's word for themselves?"

"Probably." Rich grunts, looking up from some papers, "Education can give men the means to learn for themselves, but it cannot give them the will to do it." He ignores Cromwell's glare, "For most men, life is a time of hard, unremitting work with little reward - thus they look for that reward in the next world, for they shall never find it in this one. If all they have is the word of priests, and the example of saints, what is to stop them seeking out those saints to intercede for them?"

"And all they need do is set themselves before the risen Christ and ask Him to do so. Did He tell us to travel for miles and pay all that we have to a gathering of monks in hopes of God's benediction and blessing through visiting a pile of bones? If He did so, I have yet to see it set down in scripture."

Rochford snorts with amusement, "That, Gentlemen, is why the Church does not want men to be allowed anywhere near the word of God. They might read it, and then where would the priests be?"

Rich shrugs, resuming his perusal of documents, "We shall need an escort of men at arms."

"Then you can see to its assembly." Cromwell grouches.

"I shall do it." Rochford volunteers, "I am as yet unemployed in this enterprise, it seems appropriate to participate."

"I shall aid you, my Lord." Sadleir adds, "I have lists of those men who are most likely to offer us such troops."

As they depart, Rich raises his head again, the anxiety back once more, "We might be talking of an armed escort - but I fear that it may be more appropriate to raise an army. These pilgrims are bent upon battle to save that shrine - they will die before they agree to its dissolution."

Rather than snap at him, Cromwell sighs, for he is right. All that has gone before is nothing in comparison to this - no matter how he frames it, this is the first true test of Anne's rule. Should she falter now, then all that they have achieved thus far shall come to naught.


	33. The Canterbury Trail

The canals of Brugge might well be very fetching, the fine frontages of the buildings either side reflected in the waters below; but Brandon is no architect and cares nothing for the view. So much for pamphlets - regardless of the finesse of Benedict's words, and the cost of them, no Merchantman would accept the cargo, not with the increase in inspections and customs at England's ports - none were even willing to lower a boat over the side to enter a small fishing haven. Well, none that would charge a small enough fee for him to be able to afford.

Boleyn continues to provide the funds for their meagre existence in Flanders, an enforced poverty caused by the greater need to establish sufficient means to support them as some form of Embassy for Queen Mary in her claim for the English throne. Assuming, of course, that it is possible to free her from her unwanted marriage in Sweden.

His own donations to the cause are far less extensive, for he lacks Boleyn's acumen in trade, and thus serves as little more than a secretary, taking down all that is made, and ensuring that their work is compliant with the trade laws imposed by the Flemings upon foreign merchants. Not all of it, of course; there are taxes to be paid, taxes that would swallow up far more of their funds if the tax collectors knew of them. That, at least, he has learned to do with some skill - damnation, he never saw himself as a man capable of committing fraud.

He is, at least, becoming more able to understand the tongue of the Flemings, and thus is able to glean some knowledge from the general gossip around the ports and customs house at Zeebrugge. Its proximity to England makes it a true crossroads for traders aiming for Tilbury, or the eastern English ports on the south coast and thus it serves as a prime source of information about the doings of the Concubine and her sycophants. They have heard nothing from Norfolk for so long that he is convinced that the Duke has washed his hands of the entire business and instead intends to keep his wealth and status through inaction. Doubtless, should they succeed, he shall re-emerge and claim to have been at the centre of such work all along. He has always preferred to allow others to do his plotting for him.

Scowling, Brandon shifts from the railing that has been supporting his weight, and makes his way back to the Market Square in search of a pot of ale. That, at least, is one compensation for living in this benighted place - the beers are of magnificent quality, and are easily affordable.

He is halfway through a cupful when Boleyn finds him, and seats himself, "I have tidings that may interest you." He seems very pleased with himself, and Brandon sits up, at least feigning interest in news from a man whom he despises.

"It seems that the Regent is facing an insurrection at last."

_That_ captures his interest, "From whom has this come?"

"A merchant recently departed from Tilbury. It seems that Cromwell has finally overstepped his bounds and driven the people to rise against his mistress. In spite of allowing those who follow the true faith to worship unmolested, they continue to tear down the very fabric of the Church, and the people march to prevent the destruction of the bones of Becket."

"Becket?" Brandon looks surprised, "Why Becket? There are holier shrines than his."

"Canterbury is the home of the English Church - to despoil Becket's shrine is to despoil the very seat of English Christendom. They have taken matters too far, and Englishmen shall stand for it no longer."

He sets down his cup, "And thus we do not need Benedict any longer." His tone is satisfied, "How soon can we be ready to represent the Queen Mary's interests in the courts of Europe?"

Boleyn looks at him as though he has gone insane, "You think us ready for that? Then you are as naïve a fool as ever I saw. Unless you apply more effort to earn funds for our coffers, it shall be ten years at least. Were you a diplomat, you would know in truth the sheer cost of an Embassy - you think it an easy thing to prance in silks and speak flowery words? Nay, there shall be many palms to grease before we can even gain entry beyond the gatehouse of the lowest palace in Europe." He smiles, nastily, "If you cannot trade, then perhaps it may be time to get your hands rather dirtier than you have done thus far. There is always a market for labourers."

Smirking unpleasantly, he raises his cup, "Here's to a future in the English Court after all."

* * *

Sadleir reads carefully thought the report from one of Cromwell's better observers, "It seems that the claim of pilgrimage is a strong one, Mr Cromwell. The streams of faithful now include people of remarkably high estate - great ladies are travelling in litters dressed with flowers and ribbons as though they are Maying, while women and children, along with the sick and decrepit, trail along behind."

Cromwell frowns; hardly the deadly insurrection that he was envisaging, "Then it seems that the people do not wish to shed blood; in spite of their possession of crude weapons.”

“No blood other than their own, perhaps." Sadleir sighs, "It appears that they intend to set up an encampment around the perimeter of the great Church, and allow entry only to those who can demonstrate that they follow the Roman faith."

So much for a settlement, then. No - that is unfair; they are but peasants, and know nothing of the corruption of the church that they call their own. To eradicate them would serve no one - perhaps reason shall prevail, if it can be presented in a fashion that they shall accept.

At least the report has granted him an opportunity to smuggle the Regent to Canterbury unseen, and to reduce the danger of too many men with weapons accompanying her. She has not been seen in public for some months, and if she is willing to dress like a woman of noble, rather than royal, state, then who would know that their Regent travelled amongst them?

Rising from his desk, he makes his way to the Privy Chamber. Much of the discussion in Council this morning centred around the problem of the growing pilgrimage, and little progress could be made thanks to the lack of suitable information upon which to base their plans. At least now they can travel in something approximating safety; the problems shall only truly arise once they get there.

Anne is supervising another double translation session when he arrives, sitting alongside Elizabeth and working with her upon a short passage of text that has been translated out of Greek into French, and must now be translated into Latin. Again, for a child so small, Elizabeth seems to adore such work, unlike most children who dread it; and she is concentrating most carefully. Utterly oblivious to the danger that her rule now faces, she is delighted as her mother nods in approval at each word that she sets down correctly, and is eager to earn more smiling nods of the head.

"Forgive my intrusion, Majesty." Cromwell bows, "I must speak with your royal Mother."

"Of course, Mr Cromwell." Elizabeth's voice is still that of a child, though the tone of her words seems far more adult, "I shall continue with the aid of Mr Grindal."

He bows politely, and cannot conceal a smile as she hastily prevails upon Mistress Champernowne to fetch her tutor so that she can continue with work that so delights her.

"Come through, Mr Cromwell." Anne's tone gives away nothing of the concerns between them, and they remove to a quiet chamber nearby, accompanied only by Lady Rochford - the inevitable chaperone.

"It seems to be taking on the air of a festival, Majesty." He explains, "Thus we have found a means to transport you to Canterbury in safety and in secrecy. It shall, however, oblige you to dress in the manner of a Baroness, or possibly a Countess at most."

"I shall dress as a pauper if it shall get me to Canterbury in safety, Mr Cromwell. When are we to depart?"

"I think it best that we do so in the next day or so, Majesty - in order to be concealed amongst the travellers. It may also be possible to glean from those we encounter what their plans might be once they have reached the city. It shall be given out that you have removed to Windsor for a time - and perhaps we shall season it with a light rumour that you do so in the superstitious hope that you might find succour from attending the grave of his Late Majesty. Thus none shall remark upon your absence from Court."

"Such subterfuge, Mr Cromwell." she smiles, "But the cause demands it. I do not wish to remain hidden away any longer, not when I can take steps to bring this matter to an end with as little bloodshed as possible. How I shall do it, I still cannot say with certainty - but it is imperative that I try. If I must travel in so foolish a fashion, then I shall do so."

He nods. Henry would not have done such a thing as this - he is quite sure of it. An army would have been assembled and marched south with a view to dispersing the people on the road in a brutal show of strength that might - or might not - serve to prove Henry's authority. How many would die under the swords of such a force? Even at his most revolted at the Church of Rome, he would not wish to respond with the edge of a sword - not against uneducated people who have only the faith that has been taught to them to guide their actions. To hate them would make him as bad as those he claims to be hateful, and even at his most venal, he cannot bring himself to be a hypocrite in such a matter.

It seems that, if they are to bring this business to a close, they cannot do so with force of arms. Instead, they must look to secrecy, and then rely upon that foolish construct 'Mother of the Realm' and prat fervently that Queen Anne can persuade her wayward brood to return to their homes.

He is not at all hopeful.

* * *

"Out of the way, there! Watch yourselves!" The Captain's voice is strident, but not overly aggressive - they are, after all, supposedly travelling incognito. In answer to his call, the stream of people drifts apart, allowing the party of riders escorting an enclosed litter to pass.

Now that they are amongst the travelling throng, it seems to Cromwell that there are fewer than expected, though still enough to be of concern. The air seems quite festive, as people chatter to one another, and now and again someone breaks into song. The number of sharpened farm implements is also smaller than he was led to believe, though he has no doubt that even a defence without them shall still be violent if the throng are suitably provoked.

He rides dressed as a highly ranked steward, while Rich and Sadleir do likewise. The hand-picked royal guards escorting the Regent are dressed in dark grey, and bear the arms of the Earl of Ormond, a suitably obscure title given its Irish origin, but relevant in that it belongs to the Regent's father; or, at least, it would if it had not been confiscated by the Crown.

None of the fellow pilgrims know it, of course, and are pleased that another of the nobility travels with them on their quest. God above, all this for a set of bones - if passion such as this could be harnessed for the good of England, then who could stop them from ruling all of Christendom? Seated above them on a chestnut palfrey, Cromwell wonders how it could be possible to redirect it. Misplaced it may be - but that his fellow Englishmen are capable of such loyalty and pride fills him with equal pride, for he is as English as they.

Except that he does not feel the need to stand guard upon a skeleton.

Seated within the enclosed litter, Anne clutches at a rosary and attempts to remember the prayers that she has not spoken since she first chose to address God in English. It is cosmetic, in case any see her and need to be shown immediately that she is as for popery as they - but equally she finds it pleasant to hold, almost comforting; a reminder of a time when her nurse sat with her and showed her how to pray.

Given the speed of their train, and the slowness of the crowds about them, they shall not reach Canterbury in a day, and thus shall seek shelter in an inn suitable for a woman of noble rank. Her hood is decorated with pearls, but not gold, while her garments are fine, but not royal. All have been instructed to refer to her as 'your Grace', and she is quite content to pretend, for a while at least, that she is the aristocrat that she was before that extraordinary elevation to a throne began.

Jane is without, riding a bay jennet, and responds quickly to Anne's call, "Yes, your Grace?"

"Might I trouble you for a cup of wine? I am becoming thirsty."

"I shall see to it, your Grace." Such aplomb. Most of the people who have answered her requests have been obliged to hastily correct themselves in their responses.

The curtains may be closed, but they do not block out sound, and she can hear as someone calls up to the escort, "And who travels with us, my Lord?"

"Her Grace the Lady Margaret, Countess of Ormond." Cromwell's voice answers, easily, "Eager to seek succour from the shrine of Saint Thomas."

"And to protect it from those blackguards that advise the Queen and her mother, no doubt!"

"Blackguards, sir?"

"Indeed so! That black monster Cromwell - whispering in her ear, I'll warrant. She has been good to English folk, but what of him, and his crew of reformers? Pshaw! Once she sees miracles that shall protect us from his plotting, she shall be free to return to the true faith - for she protects us with her proclamation, and thus it is a mere matter of time before she turns back to the right religion. We shall show her that she is in error!"

He sounds very determined, but at least he is not blaming either Elizabeth or her for this. Perhaps then she shall have some purchase in her climb up this mountain of fervour. She listens, wondering who the man might be.

"And to whom do I have the honour of speaking, sir?" Cromwell is very good at being deferential when the circumstances demand, it seems.

"Robert Hobbes, good Sir - I was, until recently, the Abbot of Woburn, until it was taken by the commissioners and closed. Our very faith is under threat from heretics, and if I can do what I can to save it, then I shall do so willingly, and give my life if the Heavenly Father asks it of me."

"I do not think that the Queen shall demand it, Sir." Cromwell's voice remains polite and meek, "She seems unwilling to make martyrs."

"Perhaps not - but if she is in thrall to men who do, then we shall fight for her deliverance. Once we thought her mother to be naught but a wanton, but her kindness and godly works of charity speak of a gentler countenance and a motherly teacher. Nay, it is the collection of sinners that surround her that keep her from her true path as God's Queen, and thus we shall demonstrate to them all that it is His will that she restore England to the true religion, and expunge this realm of heresy. It is our hope that the Regent shall also see the error of her ways, for she is not the woman she was when she first wore the crown. It may yet be that we can bring her back to the true Faith."

She sighs to herself. There is no fire of extremism in him, just a determination to do what he thinks to be right. How can men be so driven to think only one way to be the true way? Did Christ demand such a thing from His Church when he rose again and left his last instructions to his apostles? Believe in only one, _specific_ , way - or die a hideous death. No - where is that requirement to love one's neighbour in the flames of a pyre? For all her relief that their efforts to create the 'mother of the realm' seem to have borne fruit, she is dismayed that they still have a considerable distance to travel before they can truly claim to have established a religious settlement in England.

The man does not remain with them for long, instead moving off and leaving them to continue on their own. She is drowsing by the evening, when they stop at a fine inn within the boundaries of Maidenhead, and she is finally able to settle down in a comfortable chair beside a fire in a warm chamber.

In deference to their disguises, her advisers are now Mr Wyckes, Mr Jenks and Mr Parker - each of them having taken the maiden names of their wives - while Mr Sadleir pretends to be a lowlier servant than they, and is content to be addressed as Ralph. It is as well that they have done so, as there are other pilgrims of means staying at the inn, and not all of them are as accommodating of the Regent's involvement as Abbot Hobbes was.

It feels most strange to sup in a room where she is served not by her usual stewards, but by her Lord Privy Seal. Rich is hardly the most competent server, but he does his best, and manages not to spill _too_ much wine as Lady Rochford sits with her as a travelling companion of equal rank, while Cromwell works his way through some papers, and Rochford tries not to make too much noise clearing away the pewter plates. God, were they not surrounded by enemies, she would laugh at their incompetence.

"Are we likely to reach Canterbury upon the morrow, Mr Wyckes?" She asks, sipping at wine that has been mulled with rather too much sugar thanks to its being prepared by a man who has never done such a thing before, and has not the first idea how much sugar costs.

"Yes, my Lady." Cromwell peruses a crudely drawn map, "I would advise that we depart at first light, however, as the road may become rather more crowded as we approach. The roads to Canterbury would not usually accommodate such numbers as appear to be travelling with us."

"And has our accommodation been prepared?"

He nods, "Your host is aware of your attendance, and advises that rooms are prepared. He also asks you to note that the numbers of arrivals increases daily, and it may be rather difficult to approach the house." He is careful not to say _Palace_.

"Then we shall approach slowly and with care, Mr Wyckes." She hastily sets her hand over the mouth of her cup as Rich offers her more of his rather badly mulled wine, "Thank you Mr Jenks, I think I should not sleep well were I to imbibe more wine at this hour." Better that than to admit that he has taken a fine claret and ruined it, "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I think I shall retire."

The three men rise, bow and depart, leaving Anne with Jane and Margery, who is posing as her chief gentlewoman. While she is certainly alive with a sense of adventure; from tomorrow, she shall be in Canterbury, and facing an intractable problem that she has not the first idea how to solve. Thank God she is riding in a litter - the chances of being able to sleep tonight are slim at best. At least she shall not be in danger of falling from a horse when that lack of sleep catches up with her on the morrow.

* * *

Cranmer was right to warn them, it seems; for the throngs crowding around the great Christchurch gate that opens into the Abbey precincts are extensive, though peaceful, and the few remaining lay brothers summoned from the Abbey of St Augustine nearby are quite keen to usher them inside, and thus keep the streets clear in order to avoid stirring the wrath of the townsfolk. Were it not for the visible wealth of her noble train, they would be helpless - but the sight of a wealthy patron spurs the black-clad brothers to urge the burghers aside and make room for them, and they are able to pass by largely without issue. They shall be welcomed into the Archbishop's Palace through a side gate, but Cromwell is keen to see how many have come, and thus rides through the great gate that stands ahead.

Beyond, he is appalled at the sight before him. The throngs must number into the thousands - all of them grabbing what little space is available. They are - unsurprisingly - not permitted inside the great Church, which remains reserved for a community of religious brothers, but instead make what shelter they can across the lawns, herb gardens and even within barns where they are fortunate to have sufficient coin to hire a space. There is no sign of the wealthier travellers who have, doubtless, paid for chambers in the guesthouse of the Abbey, but they would hardly have added a great deal to the numbers had they not. Already the reek of effluent is permeating the air, for there is but one culvert that can be used to wash away nightsoil and urine. That alone shall drive people away if they are not sufficiently fired up for Becket. Perhaps it shall - he can hope.

Passing by the accumulation of people, and their filth, he makes his way to the gate of the Archbishop's Palace, and is grateful not to have to plead for entry, for Cranmer is within, and is relieved to see him, "They are coming in their thousands, Thomas. I cannot dissuade them, and the Brothers are hard put to aid them. None of them have brought victuals, as though they are convinced that God shall provide - but there is not sufficient space to accommodate them in the refectory, nor sufficient victuals to feed them. We are doing what we can - and the City Guilds have been pressed to aid us in doing so."

"What are their plans?" Cromwell asks, as they cross a parterre garden and enter the Palace.

"I think they have none. Merely to stay where they are, befoul the place and fight off any commissioner that dares to enter. I fear to imagine what shall occur upon the morrow - for they shall expect to be granted entry to the Church, and the Brothers within shall demand that they be kept well away from the holiest places, particularly while devotions are in progress."

"It is a Church, Mr Cranmer. Why should not worshippers be admitted?"

"We shall never get them out again." Cranmer reminds him, "Furthermore, they shall fight amongst themselves over precedence in the protection of the shrine. Such skirmishes have already broken out between those who have arrived first, and those who have come later. They are angry, and keen to fight for the bones of Becket; unfortunately, as yet they have no one to fight, so they fight each other."

"I suspect, from what I saw, that much of the combat is fuelled by an excess of alcohol, rather than an excess of zeal, Mr Cranmer." Cromwell observes, "And that is something that crosses both sides of the religious divide in England. Our primary interest is in assuring all present that the remains of Becket shall not be destroyed, but instead interred with due deference in consecrated ground. There is no need to seek intercession from a skeleton when Christ promised that he would intercede for men."

The Archbishop smiles, "You shall never eradicate the pilgrimage, Thomas. The old ways teach that the journey of the pilgrimage is an equal journey through the growth of faith - and even I have no objection to such a thing as the growth of faith. It is, however, my preference that pilgrims come here to prostrate themselves before the Almighty, rather than the remains of a long-dead murdered predecessor, and know that they shall not be robbed of every groat for the privilege of doing so." He reaches out to guide his colleague, "Come, there is scented water for washing, and chilled ale. We sup at six - I am sure you shall appreciate the opportunity to rest from a long day in the saddle."

Cromwell smiles back, "And I think her Majesty shall appreciate a cup of wine that is not sweetened by obscene amounts of sugar. I am not sure that she has forgiven the Lord Privy Seal for his hopeless inability to mull claret."

The chamber that has been set aside for him is spacious, with a large tester bed at one wall, and a long table upon which is set a pewter pitcher of citrus-scented water alongside a basin. Unlike most sources in Canterbury, the water in the Palace is drawn from a deep well that is fed by a spring that rises deep below the ground, and thus it is wonderfully cold as he discards his doublet, rolls up his sleeves, and sinks his arms into a basinful up to his elbows.

For a moment he sighs with relief, before rising from the water and looking out from the window of the chamber as he dries his forearms with a rough cloth. It is on the second floor, and thus affords an excellent view across the precincts of the Cathedral. God above, the number of people crowded into that limited space has grown greater still. Surely there are not this many people intent upon protecting Becket? What chance shall the Regent have of dissuading them if they are in such numbers as this?

For a moment, he is nervous, and beset by doubt over his decisions; he had assumed that the Roman faith was declining in England, as more and more people saw through the deceit of the Bishops and Cardinals. But the crowds below suggest otherwise. No - he is not wrong. He is not…

A knock upon the door startles him, and he turns, sharply, "Yes?"

The door creaks open, and Rochford looks in, "Supper is served, Mr Cromwell - my sister asked after you." They have agreed to conceal the Regent's identity for a little while longer, for fear of rumours escaping while some of the palace servants are still present. To all intents and purposes, Anne is a lady formerly of the Queen's household.

Hastily, he pulls his sleeves back down and retrieves his doublet, "Forgive me, I was distracted."

Supper is a simple affair, a roasted venison with fresh baked bread, served with a fine claret. Picking at her portion, Anne turns to Cranmer, "How long have the people been here, your Grace?"

"They first began to arrive six days ago, Ma'am - though in small numbers." Cranmer advises, "The greater numbers first appeared two days afterward, and have continued to grow ever since. We do what we can - but…" he sighs.

"But?"

"The culvert is utterly befouled by filth, and the stench of effluent is becoming utterly insupportable - even worse than the drains of the streets. The poor brothers attempt as best they can to keep the water flowing, but it was never intended for numbers as great as this."

"Then perhaps it would be better to offer accommodation in other parts of the City?"

"We have tried that; but none will accept it - they argue that, were they to do so, we would despoil the shrine in their absence."

She sits in silence awhile, "Maybe we should take account of their concerns. For the time being, at least. Perhaps it is too soon to remove this shrine - a younger generation might be more accepting of it."

Cranmer stares at her, shocked, "You would yield to the demands of the masses?"

"If they are truly passionate, then yes. Is it not better to listen to her Majesty's subjects?"

"Even if they are misguided?"

"Even then. Those who are misguided can be helped to see the error of their ways - and then they shall be more willing to accommodate our reforms."

"Thus speaks the mother of a young child, Ma'am." He smiles at her.

"And are her Majesty's subjects not as a young child in these matters?" she smiles back at him, "We shall discuss this matter more thoroughly in the morning, I think. Today has a been a long day, and I am very tired."

"Of course, Ma'am. We shall reconsider this problem in the morning. How is her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth?"

Their conversation moves on to other matters, and she finds herself more able to enjoy her meal.

"I did not see the hordes, Mr Cromwell." Rich mutters to his colleague as they share out the last of a flagon of wine between themselves, "How many are there in the precincts?"

"Too many to counter should they choose to fight us." Cromwell answers, dolefully, "I can see them from my quarters - all that I could hear from them was voices raised in song. They are eager pilgrims, not vicious extremists - and they think that God is with them."

"Are we certain that He is not?"

"I think that is something that we shall discover on the morrow." He rises from table, "I think I shall take a walk in the gardens while there is still some light."

"Would you object to company? I am still stiff from the ride and would appreciate the opportunity to loosen my joints a little."

There would once have been a time when he would have looked for an excuse to decline - but not these days. In putting aside their enmity, a friendship has taken the place of it, and he is pleased to spend some time with a man who is possessed of an incisive wit and impish humour.

"I think I have erred, Mr Rich." Cromwell sighs as they emerge into the parterre garden that fronts the palace, "I thought that England was more prepared to abandon idolatry than she seems to be - and thus I have placed her Majesty in a most difficult position."

"Perhaps." Rich agrees, "But a difficulty such as this would have arisen sooner or later, and thus her Majesty would face a stern test of her rule. Better now, I think - for we have time to rebuild should errors be made. From what I have been told by Chapuys, neither the Emperor nor the King of France are in any position to turn upon us. They are too preoccupied with their own squabbles."

Cromwell frowns, "Nonetheless, I am fearful that I have wrought damage upon our careful work to present her Majesty as Mother of the Realm."

Rather than open the gate that leads out onto the precinct of the cathedral, he opens a small viewing port and looks out at the throng beyond. Again, he is struck by the sheer numbers that have arrived; men have come, of course, but so have their wives, and their children. Here and there, a priest who has also made the journey is leading small groups in prayers, while a larger gathering sits around a fire and makes its mumbling, inaccurate way through a _Te Deum Iaudamus._ No - these are not enemies; far from it. How on earth shall they disperse such earnest people as this?

He sighs - not everyone seems intent upon worship; a man is huddled in the corner of a barn's buttress, where he clutches his arms about himself and crouches with such obvious intent that Cromwell hastily looks away.

"Her Majesty shall find it hard to convince such numbers that it is best to abandon the shrine." Rich observes, as his colleague shuts the viewing port again, "And the lack of a sense of violence would leave us utterly unable to deploy soldiers to disperse them - not without causing that damage that you fear so greatly."

He does not sound accusatory, or smug - something that is still rather unusual for a man of his reputation - but instead sympathetic. It is a singular dilemma - how to persuade the multitude beyond the gate that they are in error, and what to do if they refuse to comply?

"Indeed." Cromwell sighs, "But there is nothing that can be done this night. I think it best to retire and consider the problem upon the morrow."

Rich nods, and the pair return to the palace. Tomorrow they shall consider their next move - after all, the problem is hardly likely to disperse of its own volition. Perhaps it shall be possible to find leaders, and negotiate with them - but until the morning, it is impossible to know.

* * *

It is always strange to wake in an unfamiliar bedchamber, and Anne looks about in mild confusion until her senses gather and she recalls where she is. The truckle at the foot of the bed is empty, and she knows that Margery is already awake, preparing her Queen's gown for the day. They might have made the journey pretending that she was a Countess, but now she must resume her true identity - and dress the part - if she is to have any hope of making headway against those who have collected in the grounds beyond the palace wall.

Jane presents her with a plate of fresh-baked bread with slices of firm cheese, while a small pitcher of small ale is set for her to drink. Breaking her fast as her two women spend time dressing her hair and setting out cosmetics, Anne looks across at the window, through which sunlight is slanting, "The day looks set fair."

"Yes, Majesty." Margery agrees, "Though I fear that the horde beyond the gates are less pretty to observe. I was obliged to step outside in search of the coffer containing your stockings - and the reek from them quite insupportable." She wrinkles her nose in mild disgust at the memory.

"They do not have access to the Archbishop's well, Madge." Anne reproves, "It is hard to wash when one has very little water."

Most of the Archbishop's household, who have been granted a leave of absence, are now gone; replaced by those who travelled with the convoy, and most of her usual retinue seem be about when she emerges, her hair enclosed in an elaborate hood encrusted with pearls and gold filigree, while a dark crimson overgown thickly embroidered with more pearls and intricate stitching rests atop an unadorned ivory kirtle. Her cosmetics are carefully applied, and she looks as much a Queen as she has ever done in her life. Even if she cannot convince the people outside, at least they shall look upon her in wonder - perhaps then her failure shall seem at least a little like a success.

Cranmer has set a small hall aside for her reduced council, and he awaits her with Cromwell, Rich and Rochford. The four of them look worried, and she shares their worry. Had she been facing an angry rabble, then perhaps there would be a clearer answer to this - but those who brought improvised weaponry with them seem to have set them aside, perhaps thanks to the priests who have also made the journey, and now there would be no justification upon the earth to disperse them with force of arms. Not, at least, without rousing the ire of her otherwise occupied neighbours across the sea.

She is not surprised to see that Cromwell looks most uncomfortable. In spite of her own interest in reform, he has always been the primary instigator of their works, and is quite convinced that he is about to be struck by a great wave of angry invective. Certainly Henry would have done such a thing - he despised to be made to look weak, or a fool - and a mistake such as this would certainly have resulted in an explosion of rage. But, for all her fire and temper, she is not Henry, and anger shall solve nothing. Not here, and not now.

"So, Gentlemen. What are we to do?" she asks, as they bow and wait for her to seat herself, "I think it unlikely that standing upon a cart and addressing the throng shall have the desired effect."

"I think it best to identify those who have been set in charge of said throng." Cranmer advises, "I have asked Mr Ridley to establish who these people might be, in order to invite them here to negotiate. I suspect that, were I to emerge, I might be pelted with all manner of unmentionable substances."

Anne smiles at his mild jest. He is, however, right to be concerned - for he is the foremost leader of the English Church under Elizabeth, and the people outside would expect him to defend their saint, not side with those who seem set to attack him.

"In that case, I shall remain here and await his report." She agrees, "Though I am concerned for the welfare of those who reside within the cathedral close. Ensure that those lay brothers who are engaged with offering them succour are well supplied with monies to feed them and see to their comfort - it shall be met from my personal coffers."

Cranmer beams at her, please, "My thanks, Majesty."

"Do not speak of the source of the largesse. Allow it to be disseminated without acknowledgement. I do not wish to be ostentatious in my distribution of charity. The knowledge goes no further than these walls."

"Yes, Majesty."

"Assuming that we are able to identify the leaders of this…pilgrimage, Majesty," Cromwell continues, "How are we to proceed?"

"We meet with them, hear their demands, and counter with our own arguments, Mr Cromwell. Should it be thought better for all that the shrine remain where it is, then we shall accede to that demand. I do not consider it a weakness to listen to the concerns of my daughter's subjects. Did we not undertake that first progress with the intent of demonstrating to the people of England that I listen to them as does a mother?"

"Yes Majesty." He sighs. Of course - he is a man. How can he understand that to compromise is not always an act of weakness? As a woman, Anne's entire life has been a long sequence of compromises - usually of the sort that removes her happiness in favour of the convenience or ambition of a man.

"My concern is that they shall require us to reverse the closures that have already taken place." Rich adds, "If that is so, then the cost shall be incalculable. Much of the gains to her Majesty's Treasury have been set aside to meet the debts that were accrued by his late Majesty, and even now these are not entirely met. Should we be obliged to reimburse those from whom those lands are confiscated, then it shall bankrupt us. Equally, should we _not_ reimburse, then we shall lose the love of those who have granted their loyalty to you in exchange for lands and holdings that were once beyond their reach."

"Then, should that be demanded, we shall counter that we shall suspend the closures - but those houses that are already closed shall remain so. Equally, we shall reinstate a quarter of those holy days that are no longer permitted to be observed."

Cromwell nods, approvingly. She has studied this matter well, and her suggestions are akin to those he would have made himself. Before he can speak, however, there is a hasty knocking upon the door, and a steward opens it to reveal a man in clerical garb, who looks out of breath, and very fearful.

"What is it, Mr Ridley?" Cranmer looks shocked at the man's dishevelled state.

"Forgive me, your Grace," his Chaplain is shaking with horror, "It seems that God does not approve of this great gathering - there has been an outbreak of sickness amongst the pilgrims. At least fifty have now succumbed to symptoms that suggest a bloody flux, and there have been seven deaths in the last two hours."

The table is silenced for a moment, until Anne rises, bringing everyone to their feet, "Have physicians been summoned?"

"None shall attend, Majesty - they are too afraid of the contagion."

"Then summon the brothers of St Augustine and set them to work retrieving the sick and taking them to their Abbey's infirmary if Canterbury’s is overrun. Whatever cost is incurred in combating this sickness, I shall meet it. Go to! Quickly!"

She turns, and sees that her councillors are staring at her in wide-eyed horror - their fears seem not to be for themselves, but instead for her. They have brought her into a churning pit of sickness; what if she falls ill, too?

"Stop that, Gentlemen." She chides, crossly, "Now is not the time for dreading fears that may not come to pass - this must not be carried out into the city, or beyond. I refuse to run from this - should I do so then I shall truly be naught but a self-loving wanton. My child is safe at Whitehall - should I miscarry, then Sussex and Southampton can serve as Lords Protector in my stead. God's blood! We cannot sit upon our hands and do nothing!"

Her temper is sufficient to stir them to action; Cromwell turns to one of Anne's stewards, "Fetch in Mr Sadleir. We must make an inventory of what physics are available, how much space can be spared in the infirmaries - and where else we can set the sick should any more fall ill. Move!"

The Steward flees, and Rich gathers the papers he brought with him, "I shall assist Ralph." Quickly he bows to the Queen and hastens out.

"I take it his intention is to settle himself as far away from the sick as possible?" Rochford asks, with a mild smile, "Not that I blame him for doing so if that is the case. He has beaten me to the line."

"Majesty," Cromwell turns to Anne, "I must ask you to remain within the walls of the Palace. Drink only wine, eat nothing that is not roasted or baked. If you have protective tinctures, then now is the time to use them."

"I shall not hide from this, Mr Cromwell." She snaps back, "Do not even attempt to demand it. The people without are my Subjects, and I am their Queen. I shall not sit to one side and leave them to suffer if I can aid them."

"Majesty - your daughter…"

"Shall be safe." She finishes, "If this is the true test of this pilgrimage, then I intend to meet it with courage and fortitude - as God demands of all Christians. You may either aid me, or stand aside."

In spite of the danger, he finds it in himself to smile, "I could not do so, Majesty. I am your foremost Minister - where you go, I shall follow."

"Then let us go into the Valley of the Shadow of Death."

"And fear no evil." He adds.

"For thou art with me." She finishes, "Come. Let us see what can be done."

"Yes Majesty." Rising, he follows her out.


	34. A Sea of Anguished Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year all! Thank you for your continued Kudos and comments. I rather lost track of the days (as one does between Christmas and New Year), and I wanted to check this chapter for location accuracy having visited Canterbury a couple of times since the chapter was first written. I think, however, that all is well!

Ridley looks very worried, "The contagion is spreading, your Majesty. Another sixty have taken sick in the last day."

"How?" Rochford looks bemused, "How can this be so? Surely God is not angered at the dedication of pilgrims - even if it be misguided?"

Anne ignores him, there are far more important concerns, "And what of the infirmary - are the brothers able to accommodate so many?"

Ridley shakes his head, "More have presented themselves at the gatehouse of the Abbey than can be admitted, Majesty. The Brothers have emptied out a nearby barn and laid out pallets with straw, but even that is becoming overwhelmed, both by the sick, and by their loved ones."

Cromwell sighs; so many have come with their families in their determination to protect the shrine - and now they are paying for it with sickness. How it has happened, he cannot begin to guess; but that does not alter the fact that it has happened, and they must do what they can for the afflicted. He has already long learned that his Queen shall absolutely refuse to leave them without aid, and thus he must do what he can to assist her.

"If there is nothing else that can be done of a practical nature, then I shall withdraw to a quiet chamber to pray for those that are suffering. As soon as it is possible to do so, I wish to visit those who are afflicted, and offer what little comfort I can."

Her suggestion is met with a bank of horrified stares.

"Majesty - I cannot permit you do such a thing!" Cranmer is appalled, "What if you take sick?"

"Do you think I have not looked into the eyes of the almighty and thought myself soon to die from sickness, your Grace?" she counters, "Do not forget that I have endured the Sweat - and lived. If God is with me, and with us in our endeavours to reform His Church, then He shall protect me from this sickness."

"But what of foul humours in the air?"

"As I said, He shall protect me. I cannot sit here and hide from the suffering of my daughter's subjects. Am I not their mother? Have I not spent two years and more showing them that I look upon them with maternal love? For I do - they are dear to me as my own child, and I would give my own life for their protection! What example would I set to her Majesty my daughter if I hid myself away while her subjects suffered?

In spite of his worries at her foolishness, Cromwell cannot stop himself from feeling another surge of that now-familiar paternal pride. This is not his doing, of course: this tenacity is a part of Queen Anne, and has always been; but her determination to be the Queen that her own father claimed that she could not be governs her actions even now, and England is the better for it.

Except for one thing. One thing that no one present has considered.

"Majesty…"

"No, my Lord Treasurer, do not attempt to dissuade me. I must do this - for the sake of my daughter's subjects."

"I would not wish to do such a thing." He advises, gravely, "Instead I suggest that we take care. My concern is that this outbreak of sickness has coincided almost to the day with your arrival, and it would serve us most ill if it became known that this had occurred; for fear that those who have been afflicted claim that you are to blame for it. I think it best that we remove you from the Palace this night, and effect a more ostentatious arrival upon the morrow, so that your plans to aid your subjects are not damaged by claims that you are the cause of their sufferings. We are most fortunate in that our secrecy has served to enable our departure unseen."

"They would blame me for it." She sighs. It is not a question. She knows that her reputation is still stained in some quarters.

"Or perhaps claim that it is an affliction that has been set upon them by the saint for their failure to obey the Pope's Bull?" Rich adds, nervously, "If that is so, then we must indeed remove your Majesty from this place."

"And then return with much pomp to give the impression that you were not here at the time the sickness broke out. I suspect that many who have not been afflicted at this time shall flee overnight - though my fear is that they shall take the contagion with them in some manner - as has been seen before, so I would strongly advise that they not be permitted to do so until this has abated."

"And what then?" Anne asks, "Even were I to arrive aboard a golden chariot hauled by winged unicorns, I could not abate this sickness by my presence alone. No, if I am to do so, then there is no alternative. I must walk amongst the gathered pilgrims."

"Absolutely not, Majesty!" Cranmer's voice goes up in horror, "We know not how this sickness has arisen - what humours are amongst them; if you were to grow sick as they have done - what then for her Majesty the Queen?"

"She shall reign with her Council to advise her." Anne snaps back, angered at his fussing, "All of you within the walls of this chamber are my most trusted companions and advisers." Her eyes take them in, one by one, pausing for a considerable time upon Jane and Margery to include them in that august band, "Were I to falter, then I know that you shall endeavour to the ends of your lives to protect and prepare Elizabeth to rule. But I shall not falter - I place my trust in God, and so should you."

Cranmer rises and bows, "Forgive me, Majesty. My concerns for your welfare have overcome me somewhat. I shall advise that your entourage has departed in fear of the sickness, and thus recall the household servants as soon as you are gone."

"I thank you for those concerns, Mr Cranmer. I assure you that I do not enter into such a plan lightly. I can only offer my apologies that your staff shall be obliged to return to the palace rather sooner than they had expected." She turns to Cromwell, "Thus we must plan our next move. Set in motion the arrangements to remove the litter and horses this day after the midday meal, as though the lady is fleeing in fear. Ensure that the honour guard also follow in their drab garments. We shall follow after dark, as quietly as is possible. Mr Ridley, arrange with the grooms to muffle the hoofs of the horses."

"Yes Mr Treasurer."

"We shall assemble a mile east of Faversham, where the guards shall exchange their drab for their royal regalia, and we shall unfurl the royal standard. Then we shall arrive in Faversham as though we were travelling to Canterbury. Wait there for dawn, and continue on as though attending the site to address the Pilgrims - only to find them struck down with sickness."

He looks around the table at the approving nods, "That seems a goodly plan, Mr Cromwell." Rochford agrees, "I shall assist Mr Ridley in arranging for the departure of the litter and the soldiers - if you are in agreement, Majesty?"

Anne nods, "If we must engage in deception to prevent this matter from worsening, then so we shall. Do not think that I shall be willing to return to London if that is your intention."

Cromwell shakes his head, "No, Majesty. You are right to fear the dangers that shall befall your reign if you are seen either to have been here when the sickness struck, or are known to have fled from it. We shall regroup at Faversham and thus return here as a Royal party - and then, God willing, we shall be able to mitigate these dreadful circumstances."

She smiles at him, "Excellent."

* * *

Jane enters the Queen's chamber to see that Anne is upon her knees before the Sacrament, her lips moving silently as she prays for the welfare of the sick pilgrims beyond the Palace wall. A light meal lies nearby, untouched and cold, having presumably been set there while she was still at prayer - and she has not moved in all that time.

"Forgive me, Majesty. Mr Ridley asked me to advise you that the sickness has spread further. There are now nearly a hundred souls in the infirmary, and the barn. The brothers are looking for other places to settle the new arrivals at their gates."

Anne stares at her, helplessly; so many? Surely God cannot be angry with them for following their hearts - it cannot be a judgement. No - it is just an outbreak of sickness, something that seems to happen with dreadful regularity amongst those who are gathered close together. That is why the wealthy flee London in the summer, after all. Somehow the heat and proximity of a multitude always seem to lead to sickness eventually; though how that should happen, she cannot fathom. Presumably some exudation of a foul humour arising from the numbers of people present.

"I cannot remain here." She says, turning back to the cross and pair of candles before her to cross herself, before rising and stepping away from her prie dieu, "There must be something that we can do - perhaps if we were to enter the Church and approach the High Altar?"

"The crowds would see you, Majesty, surely? And the Brothers of the Cathedral would refuse to permit a woman to enter the presbytery." Jane looks worried at such an invasion.

"Mary was able to do so in St Albans. If I have the Archbishop with me, then they can hardly stand in my way. Fetch my Councillors. They shall accompany us."

"Yes, Majesty." She does not object, but bobs a curtsey, and flees.

"Madge." Anne calls through to Margery, who immediately comes through to her chamber, "Assist me. If I am to prostrate myself before the Almighty, I would wish to do so as a penitent, not as a Queen."

"Majesty?"

"Assist me, please." Anne is already attempting to remove her hood.

By the time the few members of her Council arrive, she is already outside her room, and they stare at her in shock. Her fine gown has been replaced by a simple, elegant dress of grey serge, while her hair is enclosed in the simple linen coif that had been beneath her ornate hood. Her only adornment now is a simple cross of silver that rests about her neck upon a silver chain.

"Gentlemen, I intend to prostrate myself before God's mercy at the seat of His English Church, in hopes that he shall aid the pilgrims that are suffering without. I should appreciate it if we made this journey as one united group."

"Do you require us to change?" Rochford asks, looking at her simple garb rather nervously.

She shakes her head, "There is no need. As the highest of us, it is incumbent upon me to approach our Father in the poorest state. Come."

Cranmer is waiting for them at the bottom of the large staircase that leads down from the upper floor to the entrance hall of the Palace, "Majesty, there is no need for you to leave the Palace. There is a way through to the Cloister from here, and I shall lead you to the high altar." He bows.

As they make their way along a corridor with a well polished wooden floor towards the door that shall lead them into the precincts of the great Church, Cromwell finds that he can hear no percussive thud of heels from the Queen's shoes, and realises that she is barefoot. Jesu - she is intent upon appearing as a penitent, in every respect.

There are a number of the brothers of the community present as Cranmer leads her down a short flight of steps and through a small doorway into the great cloister, a misty glow within thanks to the diffusion of the light coming in through the leaded windows. Walking before his Queen, he begins to speak, "I cried unto God with my voice, yea unto God cried I with my voice, and He heard me. In the time of my trouble, I sought the Lord. I held up mine hands unto Him in the night, for my soul refused all other comfort. When I was in heaviness, I thought upon God. When my heart was vexed, then did I speak. Selah. Thou heldest mine eyes waking, I was so feeble that I could not speak. Then remembered I the times of old, and the years that were past. I called to remembrance my song in the night. I communed with mine own ears and sought out my spirit. Will the Lord cast off forever? Will He be no more entreated? Is His mercy clean gone? Is His promise come utterly to an end for evermore? Hath the Lord forgotten to be gracious? Hath He shut up his loving kindness in displeasure? Selah. At the last, I came to this point, that I thought, 'oh why art thou so foolish?' The right hand of the most highest can change all. Therefore will I remember the works of the Lord and call to mind the wonders of old time. I will speak of all thy works, and my talking shall be of thy doings. Thy way o God, is holy: who is so great and mighty as God? Thou art the God that doth wonders. Thou hast declared thy power among the people. Thou with thine arm hast delivered thy people, even the sons of Jacob and Joseph. Selah. The waters saw thee, o God, the waters saw thee and were afraid. The depths were moved. The thick clouds poured out water, the clouds thundered and then arrows went abroad. Thy thunder was heard round about. The lightnings shone upon the ground. The earth was moved and shook with all. Thy way was in the sea, and thy paths in the great waters. Yet could no man know thy footsteps. Thou leadest thy people like a flock of sheep by the hand of Moses and Aaron."

She walks slowly, her head bowed, her hands clasped before her in prayer. Her ladies follow her, while Rochford walks to her left, Cromwell to her right, and Rich and Ridley bring up the rear.

None attempt to stop them; to the few brothers nearby, she is but a great lady come in penitence to offer prayers for those suffering without, and the small procession makes its way to the processional door that leads from the cloister into the north west transept. In spite of herself, Anne finds herself dwelling upon the irony - this very spot is the place where Becket was murdered by the four knights; and she is here to pray for the lives of those who aim to prevent her from having the saint's shrine dismantled.

No one attempts to stop them as they mount the steps from the transept into the nave, before turning east and making their way up more steps towards the richly carved and painted pulpitum. Such is her clothing that the Brothers within the church seem fearful to even approach her, and she passes through into the Quire without any to stand in her way.

They move between the stalls where the cloistered brothers would stand to pray, their grandly carved misericords folded up against the backs, while the grand canopies of entombed bishops lie end to end, almost forming a wall between the Quire and the side aisles, soaring up to the great clerestory windows that send brightly coloured lights to the flagstones at their feet.

Approaching the high altar, Cranmer bows deeply, and stands to one side as the small party follow. The four men stay at the foot of the sequence of six steps, while Anne and her ladies climb them, stopping before the cloth-draped table and its great crucifix.

She remembers another time when she did this, going down upon her knees, and then setting herself face down upon the floor, her arms outstretched in emulation of Christ crucified. Her prayers had been heard then - for Henry had lived; and, as she listens to the soft rustling of her women as they also prostrate themselves, she can only look to her faith that He shall listen once again, and spare those who are dying outside.

Behind them, upon his knees, Cromwell can hear a similar rustling as Ridley does the same as the Queen. He does not have to look back to know that Rich is looking at the Chaplain in mild horror, appreciating that he shall now be expected to do likewise. The Lord Privy Seal is a poor practitioner of penitence, after all - doing so only when he considers his own soul to be in peril. With no other course of action that he can think of that might work, however, Cromwell has no qualms in doing so, and before long, all four men, just like the women ahead of them, are prone upon the stone floor. Their supplications are to God - not to a pile of mouldering bones.

Ahead of them, Anne remains still, her thoughts upon the people outside, who have come here with such noble intentions, only to be punished with a cruel sickness. _Spare them, Holy Father. Spare their lives, for they are but poor people with no means to know Your will but through the words of others. I shall walk among them as their servant, as did your Son - I swear to you upon my deepest heart that I shall do it, and I shall listen to their complaints as a kindly mother should_.

She remains so for a half-hour or more, as Cranmer quietly prepares the sacramental bread and wine, for she is likely to require communion once she rises.

He is not surprised to find that he is right.

As they emerge from the great church back into the Palace, Anne turns to Cromwell, "See to it that we are ready to depart after dark. How far is it to Faversham?"

"Ten miles or so, Majesty."

She nods, "Then we shall go, and come back again - and work as God's instruments."

"Yes, Majesty."

* * *

There is not a soul in the street as the small party of riders emerges from the side gate, the clopping of the horses' hoofs muffled by straw wrapped in sacking bags upon each hoof and bound at the fetlock. While not silent, they make far less noise than they might have done, though the burghers of Canterbury keep their shutters tight, fearful of the contagion that all now know has spread amongst the visitors in the precincts of the cathedral church.

Once out of the town, however, the riders pause while a groom who has travelled with the party removes the bags and discards them. Out here, on unpaved tracks, the need for the grip of the shoes is too great to worry about the sound of the hoofbeats.

Riding to the fore, Cromwell is relieved that there is a bright moon tonight, for they have no other means of illumination, and he has no wish to risk any of the riders taking a fall upon the unmade road. Here and there, there are signs of attempts to prevent travellers carving the route into deep ruts - but in most places, people make do with oxen to drag their heavy wagons along the wide, earthen track that is optimistically called the Canterbury road.

Much as he would like to raise the pace, the risk is too great - though the distance is no hardship; they move at a gentle trot: no faster, and that should get them to the north east of Faversham in a mere brace of hours, where he has arranged to meet up with the guards and the litter alongside a farm that he noticed on the way south. Once they are reunited with the guards, he shall be much happier. While he is perfectly capable of firing the new-fangled wheel-lock pistol that hangs from his saddlebow, it has been many years since he has fired a weapon, and longer still since he has done so with the intention of taking another life. Rochford is also armed, as is Rich, though he has no idea if either man is able to shoot straight: it is his fervent hope that they shall not be obliged to find out.

Behind, dressed in drab clothing, Anne and Jane ride together, each looking ahead carefully to ensure that they do not steer their horses into a bad patch of ground. Margery travelled in the litter when it departed after their return from the Church, and waits with clothing more appropriate for a Queen to wear, but they are still travelling _incognito_ , and thus it is essential that she remain unidentifiable.

She is aware that her tiny escort is armed, but equally hopes that the weaponry shall not be required. In spite of her more regular sorties from the palace these days, she remains ignorant of the degree of banditry upon England's roads. Fortunately, their pace is sufficient to deter any who might try, and they see no one until one of the guards of their escort emerges from a stand of trees to guide them back to the rest of the convoy.

Margery has not been idle while waiting for her Mistress to reach the small encampment, and a game pasty, with warmed cider, awaits her attention in the litter. There are equal portions for her companions, and they make a hasty meal as Anne changes into her finest clothes behind a roughly constructed fabric screen.

"There, Majesty." Jane carefully eases the hood back into place, "Now you are the very picture of Royalty."

Stifling a yawn as best she can, Anne cannot conceal her eagerness to settle down in the litter, for the journey to Faversham, while short, shall afford at least a little time to rest in comfort until they reach the inn that Mr Cromwell has doubtless already identified to house them for what remains of the night. She is grateful - it would not do for a regal woman to walk amongst anguished pilgrims to offer them succour if she is endlessly yawning.

The savoury aromas from the pasty are sufficient to prompt her to abandon her plan to sleep immediately, and she tears away small pieces of the filling, consuming them between sips of the spiced cider. Even though she is no longer prostrated upon the floor of the church, her thoughts still linger upon the people who have been struck down by sickness. How they can combat it, she has no idea, for none know how it came amongst them, or how it is that it moves from one victim to another. Lord have mercy, she does not even know how it is affecting them - do they have pustules? Or, worse, those dreadful black lumps of the plague, or the drowsiness of the Sweat…

_Holy Father - I beseech you…bring down mercy upon the heads of our poor subjects. Make me an instrument of Your Will. I do it not for my benefit, but in Your name._

She shudders a little, realising that there would once have been a time when she, as much as her late husband, would have fled from contagion and sought to avoid it at all costs. Henry certainly did so the last time the Sweat struck England a glancing blow - though she had been less fortunate, for her flight had only carried her towards the sickness, not away from it. Now, however, she must not. Even were she not bound by a determination to be a great Queen, and set an example to Elizabeth, the compassion that she has always carried in her heart refuses to permit it. A compassion that, she is now willing to admit, did not extend to Mary - for which even now she harbours regrets - but present nonetheless.

"No. I do not do it to curry favour with those who would malign me." She mutters to herself, firmly, "I do it for my daughter's subjects."

Oh, those who speak ill of her shall still claim that to be so: there is no avoiding that. But she shall remind them that Christ, despite being a greater King than any King upon the earth, had walked amongst the people as their servant, and that should be the exemplar for Princes.

It is not, of course - but it should be. Let that old buzzard Pope Paul stick _that_ in some unmentionable place - for she does not doubt for a moment that he would _never_ be seen to serve any other.

Sealing the flask so that the cider does not spill, she leans back amongst the pillows and drowses, accompanied by the soft clopping of hoofs, and the light burr of conversation from beyond.

"Rubbing at your knee shall not make that stain upon your hose depart, Mr Rich." Rochford jokes, "Such is the price of penitence."

"I have no doubt that to do so was good for my soul, if not for my garments." Rich mutters back, though he does not sound overly irked at the damage to his clothing, "I have not done so since I was a boy."

"Then it is most definitely good for your soul." Cromwell adds. She can hear the smile in his voice.

"You are, of course, assuming that I have one."

Her eyelids are drooping, and the last she hears before sleep claims her is the sound of their quiet laughter.

* * *

To look at him, most would have not the first idea that Cranmer has already welcomed the royal party to his Palace, for he gives the impression of being surprised at the column's approach, "Your Majesty - forgive me, I was not expecting you; but I must beseech you not to go through the gatehouse. There is a contagion beyond."

With everyone now dressed in their finest clothing, the few people who dare to approach the Christchurch Gate of the Cathedral Precinct would not even guess that one of the men who rides with the escort rode through that same gate but two days back. Cromwell was not dressed in velvet and sable then, nor was he wearing that fine collar of esses. It is always the garments that people notice first, rather than the face of the one who wears them.

Leaning through the curtains of the litter, Anne affects a shocked face, "Contagion, your Grace? May God have mercy upon them! I cannot remain without - please allow me through."

"The Brothers of the Abbey and the lay brethren of St Augustine's are caring for the sick, Majesty - but the sickness seems to show no sign of abating. I beg you not to proceed."

"Then at least allow me to meet with those who are not sick, or who have recovered." She insists, "Captain, please fetch the steps so that I may alight."

From his horse Cromwell can hear a ripple of excitement spreading amongst those who have gathered, for the Queen Regent intends to walk amongst them. To most, royalty is a remote institution at best, and the most they could expect is to see a distant figure upon horseback, or closed litter such as the one that stands before them, harnessed between two black rounceys. Now, however, the Queen, a Prince of England chosen and anointed by God, shall walk amongst them. He smiles to himself as people start to straighten their doublets, or fuss with their coifs in an attempt to look presentable. Given what her Majesty was wearing yesterday as she walked into the Church, he has no doubt that she cares not one fig how untidy they are.

Today, she is dressed in a heavy overgown of brocaded satin in a rich crimson hue over an ivory kirtle, while her jewels are restrained, but only to a degree that suggests a sober and chaste manner and countenance. The filthiness of the ground has obliged her to don a pair of red-painted pattens to protect her embroidered satin shoes, while her woollen cloak is also crimson, trimmed with ermine, and a pair of fine, kid-leather gloves enclose her hands, the cuffs extending past her wrists over her sleeves. She could not have created a more regal image if she had tried.

"Good people!" She pauses upon the steps from her litter, "I thank you - I had come to meet with the pilgrims who came here, and assure them that their beloved saint is not in danger of destruction - but instead I am advised that there is now sickness amongst them, and thus I have come - no longer to meet them, but to serve them as best I can, for they are my daughter's dear subjects, and her thoughts are with them, as are mine."

She can hear whisperings, as people take in her words. Do they believe she shall do it? Slowly, her eyes take in the faces before her, and she knows that they do. It seems that her determination to be Mr Cromwell's 'Mother of the Realm' has taken root.

Now, of course, she must prove it.

Stepping down with the assistance of Rochford, she pauses to allow some of the people to approach, speaking a few words here and there, submitting to the wish of some to simply reach out and lay a hand upon her, "God's blessing be upon you all, dear people. Forgive me - but I must see to the comfort of those who have been afflicted."

None of the townsfolk are keen to follow her as she departs for the gate. Cranmer is also wringing his hands, "Majesty - I really do think it unwise to…"

"Of course it is. But was it not unwise for our Lord to make his way to Jerusalem, where those who might destroy him were quartered? Did that give him cause to stay his hand?"

"No, Majesty - of course not, but…"

"At least permit me to pass through the gate. If it is clear that I cannot continue in safety, then we shall reconsider the route I shall take." She assures him, "How many remain?"

"Most, Majesty." He admits, "The City Aldermen demanded that the gates to the precincts be locked and barred, so that none could flee into the streets. All know that many who have fled sicknesses have carried those humours with them - a humour that has enclosed them, no doubt - and thus they have prevented all within from leaving."

Even as they approach the gate, she can smell it; a vile reek of the foulest of extrusions of nightsoil. Did not someone mention the bloody flux? Perhaps it is so - though she cannot say with any certainty, for she has no understanding of sicknesses.

A tall, exhausted-looking man in a Benedictine habit, looking drawn and with a very grey complexion is awaiting them as they approach the closed rear-gates, "Forgive me, but I must ask you not to proceed further - it is a truly dreadful sight beyond."

"I have given birth to a child, Sir." Anne counters, "I have seen dreadful sights. I give you my word that, if what lies beyond is too great a risk to traverse, then I shall not do so."

There are footsteps behind her, and she turns slightly to see that Cromwell has come through to join them - though she is not at all surprised that he is the only one. "You do not have to accompany us, Mr Treasurer."

"Perhaps not. But I shall, nonetheless."

She does not answer, but a deep sense of relief courses through her; she shall not have to face this horror alone, then. No matter how well she knows the Archbishop, she does not trust him as greatly as she does the man at her back.

His expression grim, the tall man turns to unlatch the gate, "Be wary, your Majesty - there is no knowing what vile humours are in the air."

"I am ready."

And then he opens the gate, and she knows that she is not.

* * *

"Why does she intend to risk herself so?" Rich is staring at the gathering of people shadowed by the gatehouse, "Surely this is too great a concession to our intent to establish her as 'mother of the Realm'?"

"You do not know her as I do, Mr Rich." Rochford advises, "She has always been stubborn - I can offer endless testimony to that; but she has also understood the importance of duty to others. She is a woman, after all; and all women are expected to conform to the requirements of duty, are they not?"

"Even to this extent?"

"In her case? Yes, I think so." In spite of himself, Rochford is obviously proud of his sister, "She has never feared danger." He pauses, and sighs, "Unlike her brother."

"I cannot criticise, my Lord; I, too, remain here while she has stepped forth." Rich admits, embarrassed.

"Ah well." Rochford muses, "If we are to remain behind like two cowards, perhaps we can escape the worst of our deserved opprobrium by making ourselves useful. Let us see to transferring her Majesty's train to the precincts of the palace."

The sound of clopping hoofs touches only briefly upon Anne's consciousness as she takes in the ghastly scene set before her in the Cathedral precincts. The stench is abominable, utterly insupportable. People are sitting in huddled groups, well spaced apart for fear of becoming sick from to an outbreak amongst their near neighbours; but all are bedraggled, silent and afraid.

"God have mercy…" Even had she not engaged in a minor deception, Anne could not have been any less appalled by the sight, "What is being done to aid these poor people?"

"We have removed the obviously sick to the infirmaries for both the Choir and Lay brethren of the Abbey; but they have no more room, so we have secured a large barn for the newer victims." The thin man answers.

"Have there been deaths?" Of course there have - but doubtless there have been many more between her departure and return.

"Yes, Majesty - at least twenty in the last three days. The sick are afflicted with fever, pains and the most dreadful effusions of stools that are liquid and foul-smelling; while others also vomit - some even vomiting blood. We have tried all that we can think of - wormwood, mint, balm…but nothing does any good. Instead, the effusions continue, and most fade and die in dreadful agonies and weakness."

"But not all die?" Anne asks, hopefully.

"A few have lived - but even now they are still weak. We have removed them from the infirmaries into a small manor house used for visiting clergy."

"And those who are not sick?"

"They remain here, for it was our greatest fear that they might become imbued with evil humours, and carry those humours with them should they depart - we have texts in our library that tell that the black death followed those who fled from it, and afflicted communities that it had not previously touched. How that it did so, we cannot say - whether it was foul humours within those who came to the communities, or they acted to infect them through the application of some poison or other - but the townsfolk wish to confine the sick within these walls for fear of becoming equally sick."

She looks back across that sea of anguished faces looking towards her. Even if they cannot recognise her face, her garments identify her as though a great flag were atop her head. None but someone Royal would wear such garments of this.

"Come." She steps forth, to Cranmer's obvious consternation, as he attempts to stop her with a nervously flapping hand.

"Remain here, your Grace." Cromwell advises, as though making a firm request, "See to the accommodation of her Majesty's train."

"I…" Cranmer looks at Anne's retreating back helplessly, "Mr Cromwell, I do not think it wise…"

"Perhaps not - but if her Majesty can offer succour to her subjects in their time of trial, then she wishes to do so." He considers it unwise just as Cranmer does, but he knows not to stand in the Regent's way. Instead he sets off in her wake. His clothing, including his boots and gloves, can be burned before he enters the Palace if need be.

Already, she is approaching a small huddle of people, a man, his wife and his two children. God above, why did the man bring his entire family? Her eyes meet those of the mother - wide orbs filled wth anguished concern of the two babes that she has carried into a place of horror. Their only shelter is a large expanse of canvas supported with two sticks driven into the ground to provide an open front. Perhaps that has protected them - though they are all grubby and not a little dampened by the chill of dew that they cannot warm away as they have no means to build a fire.

"Where have you come from?" She asks, crouching as best she can in her fine garments so that she is at a level closer to theirs.

"Tenterden, Ma'am." The man answers, "I am a dockworker at Smallhythe."

"What stirred you to come here?"

"To protect the saint, Ma'am." He answers, as though that is the answer to all things, "It was noised about that he was to be thrown upon a fire and his shrine taken down."

Ah. The power of rumour. Yes, the shrine is to be closed, but she would never even consider the thought of burning the bones of Becket. For all her fervour for reform, and her loathing of relicry, the destruction of a human skeleton would be an insult to the Almighty, who made that once-living man. But, alas, these unfortunate people believe that such a thing is not only possible, but likely.

"Have you, or any of your family, taken sick, good sir?"

He stares at her. No one, at any time in his life, has referred to him as 'sir', "No, Ma'am. But they do not let us go."

"Mr Treasurer." She decides it would not be wise to refer to Cromwell by name - not when he is reviled as the architect of all of this, "Speak to the Abbey's Infirmarer; if the people have not taken sick, then they should be examined to be sure that they are free of contagion, and then permitted to go. Provide a sum of monies to them before they depart in order to see them safely home."

He bows, "Yes, Majesty."

She turns back to the family, who are looking at her in near wonderment. Even though her garb would have made it clear to them that she was royal, to have her identity confirmed has silenced them - the Queen has come amongst them… _the Queen_.

"I could not have abjured you, good people." She says, quietly, "I, too, am a mother." Rising, she pauses briefly and gently ruffles the hair of each child.

Matters grow worse the further in they progress. Some are clearly showing signs of taking sick, and both the thin man and Cromwell attempt to guide her away, and become ever more uncomfortable as she seems quite determined not to do so. She does not get too close - but equally does not give them a suitably wide berth. Instead she turns back to the thin man, "Call the brothers to come through again and seek out those in need of aid. Ensure that those who examine the people who are well are not the same as those who aid the sick, in case their garments are imbued with foul humours."

She sounds so completely calm, as though this seeming calamity is little more than a minor incident that can be easily mended. Standing behind her, his nervousness increasing by the minute, Cromwell cannot help but admire her demeanour, as it is clearly affecting the people who are camped all around. Henry could never have done this; rather than approaching the pilgrims, he would probably have instead been travelling in entirely the opposite direction. In almost all situations, his courage would be unimpeachable - but sickness, particularly potentially mortal sickness, was his deepest, most primal fear, and nothing could persuade him to do what Anne is doing.

After nearly an hour, during which time she has made a near-circuit of the encamped pilgrims, one of the priests that had been a part of the crowd approaches. As they could not have fled, the others must be either tending to the sick, or are sick themselves.

"Your Majesty." His tone is frosty. She is, after all, the figurehead of reformation, and - to his mind, at least - an enemy of the True Faith.

"Father." It is hard not to respond in kind, but there are lives at stake, and it does not do to be petty. She made that mistake with Mary, and still regrets her actions, "I thank you for your attentions granted to these poor people. Are there others here?"

"Six." He admits, though his tone is less hostile now, "Three are dead, one is dying and the other two are aiding the brothers in the infirmary." No - the hostility has indeed faded. Instead, he sounds very, very tired.

"Let us not be at odds with one another, Father." She rests her hand upon his sleeve, "Not while innocents suffer. As you are a father to them, so I am a mother, and we must work together to aid them." If nothing else, this, too shall serve to show her commitment to the proclamation of religious settlement. Even if they opt to retain the shrine once this horror is ended.

"I shall retire to the Archbishop's palace to rest from my journey awhile. I ask you to work with this gentleman upon seeking out those who have not fallen sick, and removing them from this place to the care of the Greyfriars alongside the Stour as they are better equipped to accommodate them. Once they are known to be safe, I shall arrange for them to receive a purse of monies each to aid them in their journeys back to their homes. Those amongst them who have led this pilgrimage - who are either not sick, or who have not died - should remain here, and I shall meet with them when this calamity has passed, to assure them that the bones of St Thomas shall not be treated with disrespect."

Behind her, Cromwell shakes his head at his woolly headedness - how is it that he did not think to transfer those who had not taken sick to the Franciscan House? It remains open at this time, and yet it did not occur to him to consider it. Surely he is not growing slow-witted in his growing age? She turns to see his expression, and smiles at him.

"Come, Mr Treasurer, let us retire to the Palace - I should appreciate it if you could begin making the arrangements to provide the purses to the departing pilgrims."

He bows, "Yes Majesty."

* * *

Cranmer looks most relieved, "Thanks be to God that you are here, Majesty - forgive my fears, but your health and welfare are of greater importance to the realm than you claim. Heaven forbid that you be lost so soon."

"I am quite well, Mr Cranmer. Have no concerns for my safety." Anne is carefully removing the cloak, and easing off the gloves, "Have these burned, in case they have absorbed any unpleasant humours."

He nods, and summons a boy from the stables, "Fetch a large sack, these garments shall be placed within it, and then set it upon a bonfire."

"Do not forget the pattens." She adds, having carefully eased them from her shoes. She turns to Cromwell, her expression pointed, and he sighs, shrugging out of his own cloak, and bending to remove his boots before equally removing his gauntlets. Such a waste…

"Better that than sickness within the Palace, Mr Cromwell." she smiles at him, as he is obliged to limp over thick gravel unshod.

Ridley returns as Anne and her Councillors seat themselves for supper, "I have set all in motion, Majesty. Brother Luke and Father Christopher are gathering those amongst the pilgrims who have not taken sick, while one of the Friars, a Brother Michael, has come to escort them to the Friary.He has also brought a number of brothers to clear the way for them.”

"Good." Cromwell looks relieved, "Forgive my slowness, Majesty - it had not occurred to me that we should evacuate those who were not sick to other quarters."

She smiles at him, then turns back to Ridley, "Ensure that they remain there for a few days, to ensure that the sickness has not travelled with them."

"That should grant me sufficient time to accumulate the required funds for the stipends, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "If you could aid me, Mr Rich?"

Rich nods, relieved to have something useful to do that does not involve going anywhere near sick people.

"At least we can remove some people from this dire situation." Cranmer agrees, "Perhaps with fewer people present, the sickness might abate."

"Then we can identify those who inspired this gathering," Anne adds, as a steward oversees the delivery of the dishes, "And perhaps find a solution that shall be acceptable to all."

Taking a sip of wine, Cromwell sighs to himself. Given the absolute divergence of opinions that shall be at that table, a solution seems entirely unlikely.


	35. The Bones of Becket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very minor amendments to this one - largely to remove references to the Abbey of St Augustine as, upon visiting Canterbury last year, I discovered it was actually outside the City walls. It's not that far from the Cathedral - but it's outside the City. If you can get to Canterbury, a visit is highly recommended - and, while you're at it, just potter another half mile beyond the University buildings to visit St Martin's - the oldest church in the English speaking world, and still in regular use today.

Looking out from his window, high up on the second floor, Cromwell can see that the number of people camping within the boundaries of the precincts has reduced considerably, thanks to the Queen's request that the unaffected be removed to the care of the Greyfriars. Why did he not think of it? The Franciscans have been greeting and caring for arriving pilgrims for as long as pilgrims have attended the city - and it did not occur to him to seek out their aid. Damnation - his zeal for reform has blinded him to the need for practicality - how could he have become so utterly blinkered?

Annoyed with himself, he reaches for his simarre and shrugs into it, in preparation to traverse that dreadful ground again in search of those who can be called the leaders of the gathering that dissolved so horribly into calamity.Then, the Regent can meet with them and hopefully aim to find some common ground. He thinks upon the irony of Becket - a man who had spent his life immersed in politics, and whose only qualification for sainthood was the spot upon which he happened to breathe his last.Had he died _outside_ the Cathedral, no one would have cared on jot for the death of another self-interested politician-priest who had pushed his King too far. For his own preference, he would have the shrine closed, and the bones removed - but to do that would utterly overturn all their work to present England's present Prince in a maternal light. Thus he must bite his tongue and stand to one side as Queen Anne takes the time to ascertain what compromises can be made - for they must compromise, whether he likes it or not.

Rich is downstairs in one of the smaller chambers, sipping at a glass of sack and working his way through some papers, "There have been no new people struck down, Mr Cromwell." He reports, looking up as his colleague enters, "Though I am told that another twelve have died overnight. While the sickness is abating, it remains virulent amongst those that it has struck."

Cromwell sits opposite him, "What of those at the Greyfriars?"

"There are some fifty people - but the brothers have set them well apart from one another, and are taking great care to ensure that they are fed clean victuals, and that the ale is untainted."

"Do we expect to see any more?"

"Not at this time." Rich reaches across for another paper, "I have made some calculations as to the total monies we shall need to cover the stipends."

Cromwell smiles, knowing that he has done so out of a sense of mild guilt at his unwillingness to walk amongst the afflicted as the Regent did. Rochford has been just the same, organising the guards, the horses and the storage of the litter while they are resident at the Palace, as well as ensuring that messengers are available to communicate with the rest of the Council.

"Thank you. I shall make a start upon accumulating the required funds - though I shall require your assistance to apportion it accordingly."

The door opens to reveal Anne, causing the two men to rise immediately to their feet and bow, "I am told that matters are improving without?"

"Yes, Majesty." Rich reports, "While those who are sick remain poorly affected, there have been no new victims this day."

She sighs with relief, "God be thanked. Are you ready to seek out those with whom we shall negotiate, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell nods, "I am. I believe his Grace shall also be with us. Brother Luke has spent sufficient time among those who came here to aid us in identifying those who are likely to have acted as leaders."

"Good. It is clear that we must consider our approach to this matter with great care. It would seem most wrong of me to claim that I listen to our subjects, only to ignore their concerns when they are raised."

"Yes, Majesty."

"But?" she asks. Only a fool would have missed the presence of a 'but' in that simple acquiescence.

He looks embarrassed, "Forgive me, Majesty - but if we are to compromise upon this matter, then what shall follow for the reformation as a whole? Should it become known that decisions to close the Houses, or to undertake any other reforms, can be halted by the mere movement of people, then what is to stop those who oppose you from doing precisely that in order to overturn your will?"

She shakes her head, smiling at him, "Mr Cromwell, I said that I would not ignore their concerns - not that I would bow to them. I have no intention of permitting these moribund institutions to continue to operate as they are; but if we cannot close them entirely, then they must be obliged to amend their purpose. They shall become schools, their infirmaries shall be opened to more than only the cloistered occupants. The relics that they contain shall be removed, yes - but we shall take care to ensure that they are treated with respect. Compromise must be reached by both sides, not merely by one."

The two men both look somewhat sheepish. So used are they to a King who will not compromise for fear of looking weak, they are still utterly unprepared for a Queen who is entirely willing to do so, and appears to see it not as a weakness, but as a strength.

"Forgive me, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "I fear that I am becoming blinded by age."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mr Cromwell." She smiles at him, sweetly, "You can hardly be blamed for being a man, can you?"

"Indeed, Majesty."

Her expression becomes more serious, "Forgive me, Gentlemen, I must ask you both to accompany me, as it is my intention to identify those who have been at the forefront of this pilgrimage."

Rich blanches. He has not left the protection of the Palace boundary, and has no wish to risk exposure to the humours that have made people sick beyond it, "Majesty, I…"

Anne shakes her head, "I appreciate your discomfort, Mr Rich - but I must attend with both of my most senior advisers. Much as I have jested upon it, the fact remains that I am a woman, and I suspect that I shall be more acceptable as a negotiator if I present myself with a brace of gentlemen to speak with me."

Her tone is sympathetic: they all know that he is hardly the bravest of the men at her Council table.

"Forgive my cowardice, Majesty." He says, in a low voice, clearly ashamed.

"Cowardice is a refusal to face one's fears, is it not?" She reminds him, "Thus you can demonstrate to all that you are no coward."

Still nervous, he rises to his feet, "Yes, Majesty."

She rewards him with a radiant smile, "Thank you, Mr Rich. Gentlemen, shall we?"

* * *

The Monks' refectory is silent but for the words of the reader in his pulpit, and the soft movement of fabric as arms are raised and lowered, conveying spoonfuls of lentil stew to the mouths of the brothers. There was a time when there would have been many more black-robed men in this grand space; but, nonetheless, there are still a goodly number of diners seated below an exquisitely vaulted ceiling, listening to a verse from the scriptures as they eat, bathed in multicoloured light from fine stained glass. To Anne's eye, it seems that only the food and clothing depict poverty; the rest is a grand exhibition of unnecessary wealth.

While it could be claimed that such magnificence is appropriate to celebrate the contemplation of the Almighty, the fact remains that a simpler building could have been erected for the brothers, while the rest of the monies could have been spent upon relieving the misery of the poor. Once, perhaps, that would have been so - but the accumulation of wealth has corrupted the Church, and the demand for reform seems far more justified when that distance from the original intention is shown to her in such detail.

They do not join the meal, instead sitting quietly in finely upholstered chairs until the brothers rise and file out, leaving two novices to clear away the plates. The Abbot, a choleric man with an aquiline nose and unnervingly flinty eyes, approaches them, his expression one of reluctant tolerance rather than courtesy. While most that they have encountered seem to have accepted that their house's time is done, this one is not so accommodating, "Follow me, we shall meet in my Solar."

She remains seated, her eyes cold, "I shall remain where I am until I am greeted with the appropriate proprieties, your Grace."

He scowls, then rearranges his features to hide it, "If you would care to follow me, _your Majesty,_ " he grates, almost spitting out the words he has no wish to speak, "we shall meet in my Solar."

She smiles then, and rises, "Thank you. I should appreciate that."

Once, when such places still performed something akin to a religious purpose within the communities that surrounded them, Abbots would share the quarters of the Monks; but, just as Bishops opted to build themselves grand palaces to entertain those of high estate, so Abbots chose to create lavish apartments for themselves - and there are few Houses now that do not have separate lodgings for those who are at their head.

These are a fine example of the aggrandisement of those who are supposedly avowed to serve; beech wainscoting upon the walls, finely woven carpets across the wooden floors instead of rushes, even two tapestries. The fact that they show scenes from the Gospels does not detract from their obvious expense. Even the ceiling shows signs of expensive craftsmanship: a fine oaken hammerbeam roof not that dissimilar to those of the Halls of Westminster, Hampton or Whitehall, with angels upon the trusses, each bearing a shield with the arms of families that have donated to the Abbey. All paid for by the desperation of rich sinners hoping to buy themselves a place in Heaven after a life of dissipation. Anne struggles with herself not to show her disgust. Not all those who are at the head of religious houses are so wedded to luxury - but those who are seem to have embraced it wholeheartedly.

The Abbot leads them through to a smaller chamber, whose wide east window still brings in a degree of illumination from the sun, "Please remain here, your Majesty." It seems no easier to speak those words now than it was the first time, "Brother Luke shall bring through those to whom you wish to speak."

His bow is as shallow as he can make it without appearing unforgivably ill mannered, and he withdraws.

"Thanks be to God that he shall not be negotiating with us." Anne mutters, crossly, "Were he to do so, I fear that this institution would be the property of the Crown before the day was out."

"As I understand it," Rich's voice is low, "He was very strongly for Mary's claim, and was known to have preached extensively to any who would listen that only she could rule the Realm, for she was not - forgive me, Majesty - a ‘Godless harlot with an equally sin-stained bastard’.”

"And I thought that _I_ was an unforgivable eavesdropper." Cromwell adds, with that studied blandness that always accompanies a deadpan remark.

Fortunately, the hostile Abbot does not return alongside Brother Luke, who looks considerably less grey and tired now, owing to a night of sleep without interruption. He escorts a small group of men, some of whom have clearly emerged from the sickness, though a few seem to have escaped it.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Anne's voice is the soul of gentility, "Please, let us be seated at this table. Brother Luke, could I trouble you for some claret?"

"I shall see to it, Majesty." Unlike the Abbot, Luke has seen her behaviour amongst the sick, and does not regard her with the same degree of loathing.

As they seat themselves, Cromwell regards the five men, and his eyebrows shoot up, "Sir Adrian?"

The man he is addressing could not look less of a knight - he is thin and grey-faced, his garments of remarkably poor aspect, utterly unlike those that he once wore in Henry's Court.

"Mr Cromwell." The man responds, quietly, his voice as pale and drained as his complexion. He has clearly not been up from his sickbed for more than a day, if that, "How strange that we should meet in such circumstances."

"Most strange indeed." Cromwell turns to Anne, "Allow me to introduce Sir Adrian Fortescue, a knight of St. John of Jerusalem…"

"I know him, Mr Treasurer," Anne smiles at him, "He is my father's cousin. Are you recovering apace, Sir Adrian?"

His breathing is slow, and a little heavy, as though enduring mild nausea, "I am rather better than I look, Majesty. I remain slightly discomfited in my stomach, but the pains and other mortifications have subsided."

The other men at the table are unknown to her, being priests and monks, and Cromwell turns to enquire as to their identities.

"I am Richard Whiting, Abbot of the Abbey at Glastonbury." The man is tall, and wears the black habit of a benedictine, "This is John Thorne, one of my Brothers in Christ."

She nods, politely.

"John Eynon." A third offers, tersely, "Priest of St Giles in the town of Reading. I came in place of Abbot Faringdon."

Then she turns to the last, who looks as ghostly as Fortescue, "John Beche, Abbot of Colchester Abbey."

Anne regards each of them in turn, her face now sympathetic, "Gentlemen, I am most grieved that so noble a purpose brought about such suffering to so many. I regard all of her Majesty's subjects as equal in my heart as my own child; and I hope greatly that we have - between us - ensured that no more shall be so cruelly afflicted."

"What shall happen to those who are at the Greyfriars?" Whiting asks, clearly expecting them to have been arrested.

"They have remained for two days to ensure that none fall sick. When it can be assured that they have not, they shall be free to return to their homes, with a small purse of monies to aid their travels." Cromwell advises, calmly, "They have committed no crime."

"And what of those who remain?" Brother Luke asks, "What little succour we can supply is growing short - for the townsfolk seem to have hardened their hearts against those who suffer amongst them."

"Purchase all physics, cordials and victuals that you can find, Brother Luke. I shall bear the cost of it from my own pocket."

"Thank you, Majesty."

She smiles at him. It is hardly a cost that shall bankrupt her, after all - the sick need the monies more than she.

"I am glad that you have seen fit to offer such charity, your Majesty." Whiting seems to have decided that he shall be the foremost voice amongst them all - perhaps because he is the most prominent of them that is not recovering from sickness, "But nonetheless, we shall remain to protect the shrine of St Thomas."

"Even though those who followed your call - it _was_ your call, I take it?" Cromwell interjects, "Even though they followed you, they became sick, and so many died? I understand that those who passed were - perforce - granted only the meanest of funeral rites, and hastily interred with lime in deep pits. Surely it would have been better to address your concerns to her Majesty directly?"

"And you would have allowed her to hear us?" Whiting counters.

"He would, sir." Anne answers, frostily, "The men of her Majesty's council guide me - they do _not_ command me."

The five men shift uncomfortably in their chairs - it could not be clearer that they had emerged from their Houses and roused the people in the false belief that it was the only fashion in which their voices would be heard. It seems that, in spite of all, she is still regarded as a pretty face with an empty head that wears sparkling jewels while the men rule England in her name. Perhaps there was a time when Mr Cromwell might have attempted to prevent ill news reaching her ears; but that would have been a time before he made his promises to her to be an honest, frank adviser who would never keep things from her.

Her expression warms again, "But let us not dwell upon what is past. This matter is of concern to you, and thus it is also of concern to me. Let us consider the problem together - and, with God's help - reach a solution that shall serve for the good of England and her Church."

Diplomatic words - carefully put. Seated beside his Queen, Cromwell remains impassive, but he is pleased. At least they have made the first steps; though it shall, nonetheless, be a hard thing to overturn their objections. A challenge indeed.

He _loves_ challenges.

* * *

The walk back to the Palace is an uncomfortable one for Rich, as the presence of people who are either sick, or recovering, is altogether closer than he would like. How it is that the Queen, and the Treasurer, seem so unaffected by the presence of contagion, he cannot imagine, but he hopes fervently that they do not notice how carefully he attempts to avoid stepping too close to anyone.

Anne, however, is pleased to see the vastly reduced numbers of people present - as the larger number are now transferred safely to the Greyfriars where they are encamped in a great field alongside the Stour. As soon as the stipends are ready, they shall be free to depart. Only those who cannot be moved remain, and thus the ghastly conditions that so shocked her when she first stepped amongst the crowds of pilgrims are becoming better as the Brothers set to work upon removing abandoned canvas, clothing and other items left by those who have either fled, or died. They wear thick gauntlets, kerchiefs at their faces that enclose pouches of herbs and spices to purify the air that they breathe, and carry handfuls of detritus to a bonfire, consigning the fragments of shattered lives to the embrace of the flames.

Her happiness fades as she watches that sad, pitiful procedure. They had all come here with such simple intentions - to protect a pile of dust-thick bones in the belief that a skeleton could protect them from the brutalities of life. She had believed that, once. Her nurse had taught her of the power of relics just as they had prayed the Rosary together. Child that she was, she believed it all, willingly, openly. Only later, once she began to question the very ethos of a Church that had become bloated with wealth and a sense of its own power, did she come to realise that true Heavenly power comes only from God, not from the mouldering remains of people who believed in Him even unto death.

How can she expect the poor peasantry of England to equally question the power of the Church if they have never been taught that they need to? They cannot read the words of Luther, or of English writers who have followed his lead; or even God's Holy Word - the only means they have of studying the scriptures is to be taught by priests. Doubtless they expected Becket to protect them in their venture; only to find that he did not.

"Are you alright, Majesty?" Cromwell turns to her, seeing the paleness of her face, "If it is too much, please say so - we can return to the Archbishop's Palace until you are recovered."

She shakes her head, "No, Mr Cromwell; I am quite well - just saddened. Why did this happen? The people who came here did so with such faith - only for it to be shattered."

They stop, as one of the gloved brothers lifts a roughly made wooden horse; presumably a precious toy belonging to a child who travelled with their family. In an instant, her heart cries out, as though that lost child was the one that was once in her womb, and she steps forth, reaching for it, "No…not that."

The brothers, stare at her, shocked, and one of them backs away, "Majesty, I cannot - it has been amongst the sick - and we cannot know what humours have tainted it."

"I…" she stares at it, her eyes now glassy with tears, "Why did this have to happen? Why did little ones have to die like this? How could the Father let them fall sick as they did?"

For a moment the men around her stare in shock as she weeps in grief, horrified at her sudden loss of composure, as none of them dare to reach out to her, for she is a Queen. She stands alone, wracked with painful sobs, until someone gently slips an arm about her shoulders, "I have lost children, as have you, Majesty. Come, let your tears fall upon my shoulder."

Cromwell does not fear to comfort her, for who would think anything of it other than paternal kindness - particularly as they can hardly be considered to be alone. To his relief, Rich comes to stand alongside, his own expression saddened - a countenance that he has never before seen upon his colleague's face, "As have I, Majesty." He says, after a moment, his voice equally choked.

Her tears do not last long - for no one can cry forever. Slowly, she lifts her head from her Lord Treasurer's shoulder, "Forgive me. Please - I know what must be done, continue your work, Brothers."

Even so, as the monk carries that small wooden horse to the bonfire, she watches him with chilled, anguished eyes - and turns away as he makes to cast it into the flames.

They resume their slow walk back to the Palace, stepping carefully amongst the abandoned remains of people's possessions. Her eyes are narrowed now; angry, "If any can claim that the contents of a grave can protect them, then surely this must show them otherwise."

"We cannot be sure of that, Majesty." Cromwell advises her, quietly, "Until we have spoken to the men who served as figureheads for this gathering, and learned the thoughts of those who are now at the Greyfriars, it is impossible to know."

"You think that they might believe they have been punished for some failure or other?"

"It is impossible to know." He says again, "There is no accounting for superstition."

"As I have found for myself," She agrees, "thanks to the astrologers who assured me that Elizabeth was a boy. I am no longer so convinced of the efficacy of predictions courtesy of the night sky."

"Then we shall meet again with the delegation, and determine Becket's future upon the morrow."

Cromwell nods, and bows without even breaking step, and the Queen and her advisers make their way back to their lodgings for the night.

* * *

Whiting is standing beside the window of the Abbot's solar, his eyes distant, "And the last have now departed?"

Anne nods, "They have, your Grace. All have received a purse each, containing five shillings, in order to pay for food and lodgings as they return to their homes. The Greyfriars have ensured that they are all provisioned for the first days of their journeys."

"Thank you, your Majesty." Whiting's voice is conflicted, as though he wishes to believe the worst about her, but is being obliged to amend his view, "Has this come from the Treasury?"

"No, your Grace." Cromwell advises, "It has come solely from her Majesty's own pocket." He has been most careful to ensure that her wishes upon that point have been respected. With the departure and attainder upon her father, much of his wealth is now in her hands, and thus she puts it to good use.

Even the more hostile of the five men are looking uncomfortable, as their assumptions are challenged further still. They have all - to a man - taken it upon themselves to view her as a foul, unchaste harlot; but such a creature does not sit before them now. She is regal, solemn - her jewels restrained, her garments fine but not ostentatious, and even a black mourning ring worn not just for her late husband, but for those who died in the very precincts of the great Cathedral Church. Flanked by four of her most trusted councillors, she watches them calmly, and continues, "Thanks be to God that the sickness is dispersing; soon all those who came here shall be returned to their homes, or consigned to His divine mercy. I am well aware that it was not possible to grant a grave to each who died, and thus they have been interred together. His Grace the Archbishop shall ensure that appropriate rites for the consignment of their souls to God's care are performed as soon as is possible."

The Priest, Eynon, glares at her, "They would not have come here had they not felt that the saint was under threat."

"Under threat from what, sir?" she counters, "How is it that so many thought such a thing? They would have done so only after being told of it, I think; for only relics that our commissioners have been able to verify absolutely to be false have been destroyed. I am dismayed to find that such a large proportion have been found to be so." She adds, coldly.

He has no answer to that.

"Relics bring pilgrims." Cranmer advises, grimly, "Pilgrims bring wealth - additional to the tithes that are already demanded. But then, the religious houses are expected to send similar taxes to Rome, are they not? It does not surprise me that all houses seek to have some item or other that shall attract the desperate to part with what little they have. How else are they to meet their obligations to the Bishop of Rome?"

Had anyone else spoken so, then perhaps one of the group would have argued; but how can they gainsay the primate of the Church in England? Regardless of his stance upon matters of doctrine, his appointment was ratified by the Pope. Nonetheless, they regard him with sullen eyes, for his words go against all that they have ever believed. That they are, essentially, true means little. Not a few houses have been found to be on the verge of fiscal bankruptcy in spite of their extensive lands, rental income and the finery with which they decorate their churches and buildings.

"It matters not to me why this happened, or whether any blame should be apportioned." Anne resumes, "I have long learned, owing to my feminine state, that compromise has been a requirement placed upon me from the moment that I emerged from the womb. Thus I consider it my duty, as my daughter's Regent, to continue to do so - but no longer solely upon my account. Always, I have been obliged to set aside my dreams, hopes and wishes to satisfy the whims of ambitious men - but no longer. I expect others to compromise as I do - to give ground for a greater good. Only a blind fool could fail to see the the Church has become bloated with wealth and corruption; where the rich can purchase forgiveness for the most egregious of sins, while the poor must labour from birth to death in misery, what little they earn taken from them in rents, tithes and taxes. They are told that it is God's will, and that their privations shall be rewarded in the next world. Thus our Parliament explores the reform of taxation to lessen the burden upon those who are least able to carry it, while we consider the reformation of England's church to permit those of lesser state to reap rewards in _this_ life, instead of hoping for it only in eternity. Compromise has always been an obligation upon those who have nothing, or those who are female, while the wealthy and powerful are free to pursue their lives as they wish without consequences, for they can easily purchase absolution should they feel the need to."

Standing alongside, Cromwell can see that her words are making only a minimal impact. The men to whom she speaks have lived their entire lives steeped in the enclosed monastic world, and see the changes without as a disastrous threat to all that they have ever known. Worse, the changes are being implemented, it seems, by a mere woman; a lesser being in the eyes of God - formed from the rib of a man. The best that they can hope for is grudging acceptance, if that.

Ah well - if that is all that they can achieve, then so be it. The returning pilgrims shall have their own tales of the care and generosity of the Regent, coming to their aid in their times of distress, aiding them in their return to their homes with neither censure nor punishment; her words spoken to them by the Friar, offering them her warmest wishes and hopes for their safe journeys, and assuring them that their pilgrimage has earned her love and respect. Cromwell has long learned that Henry could never have been so accommodating to such a defiant act against him. No: all of the men would have been hanged by now, the widows and children turned out of the Greyfriars to make what way they could back to their homes. Of all the crimes one could commit against him, one of the greatest was defiance - in any form. Once again, Queen Anne can win the hearts of the people by the simple act of not being her husband. Were he not observed, he would be smiling to himself.

The five men know it, too. He can see it in their faces as they know that, by organising a safe haven from the sickness, and providing for the displaced with such generosity, Anne has won them over in a way that they could not hope to. A priest is many things, but no priest can be that most central figure of any man's world: a priest cannot be a mother.

"Her Majesty's subjects shall no longer labour in darkness and superstition, Gentlemen." She tells them, firmly, "They shall receive education, access to the scriptures and the opportunity to better themselves. It has long been my hope that ordinary Englishmen be free to determine their destinies - for I will not accept that God would refuse them such a kindness. If He shall not, then the Church most assuredly must not, for how can that be in accordance with His will?"

"That is also my hope, Majesty." Cranmer adds.

"And what does that mean for the shrine?" Fortescue asks, quietly. His hostility is muted, but not entirely gone, Cromwell can see his eyes narrowing.

"It means that the bones shall be interred appropriately, with proper funeral rites." He answers, "Just as shall be the case with all human remains that have been granted veneration." He manages - just - to avoid using the word 'undue'.

Beside him, Rich watches proceedings with a rather more ambivalent view. Despite his work as part of the reformation of the English Church, he finds it harder than most to set aside the religion he has been taught from childhood. He can hardly claim to be the most devout of subjects - but nonetheless, it is harder for him to appreciate the requirement to close Becket's shrine than the Regent, or the Archbishop - much less his colleagues Cromwell and Rochford, both of whom are altogether more wholehearted in their approval.

But he cannot oppose it, either. That more cynical part of his mind accepts the foolishness of placing trust in an object, rather than in God - it is blind superstition to do so. He has never forgotten the medallion bearing the image of St Juliana hanged by her hair that his nurse always wore as a protection against sickness. It had fascinated him as a child, for what child is not intrigued by the gruesome? But his unquestioning faith in its protective powers had been savagely battered to nothing when plague swept through the neighbourhood of St Lawrence Jewry, and it had failed to protect her. No - one cannot put one's trust in a tangible object; and thus he remains silent over the closure of the shrine. How many people who came here carried such amulets? How many of them are now also dead?

The two sides face one another in silence awhile, until Whiting sighs, and sits back. They have tried, but in doing so have done little but bring near-on a hundred people to their deaths. How can they claim that God, and the Saint, have blessed such a mission now? Yes - there shall be compromise; but it is theirs. Not hers.

She can see it in their faces, and she sighs. She could claim to have won; but, in such a circumstance as this, who can truly be a victor?

"So it shall be done." She says, quietly, "Thomas Becket shall be translated from the shrine into a vault, and the elaborate shrine shall be dismantled. The cult that has arisen about him shall no longer be encouraged; instead, the expression of faith shall be redirected back to God - to Whom it should always have been given."

They do not object.

His expression as sober as his Queen's, Cranmer rises to his feet, "Thank you, all. I shall see to the preparation of suitably reverent rites to lay my predecessor's remains formally to rest."

Anne sits as the five men who had hoped to overturn her reforms rise and bow, then depart, "How, Mr Cromwell, do you think my late husband would have dealt with this?"

He looks at her, solemnly, "Certainly not as you have done, Majesty."

"Diplomatically put, Mr Treasurer." Rochford smiles.

* * *

Jane is busy, carefully mending one of Anne's petticoats with tiny, immaculate stitching as her Queen sits beside the fire attempting to read a religious tract, but mostly looking up from it to gaze into the flames.

"It is strange, Jane." She says, quietly, "Until I was required to take up this burden, I could never have guessed that, for a Prince, a victory is a fleeting thing that seems equal almost to defeat. I have earned the concession to my will - but it does not bring me joy; not in the face of such misery."

"You were not to blame for it, Majesty." Jane observes, "You did not incite the people to come here."

"Perhaps not - but it was my actions that precipitated that incitement."

"Who could have known they would do what they did? All we can ever do is what we think to be right, and trust in God that all shall turn out in the end."

She is not surprised to see small rivulets of tears upon her Queen's cheeks. Only those who are not princes could ever imagine that to be set so high is easy.

"Come, Majesty. We must prepare you for the interment mass.” She speaks more briskly, rising to her feet and shaking out the petticoat as Margery looks up from her embroidery, and immediately abandons it to fetch out some gowns for Anne's consideration.

When she emerges from her chambers, she is dressed with that same sober restraint that marked her appearances amongst the pilgrims and their leaders. Her kirtle is a brocaded ivory silk, embroidered with small rosemary motifs picked out with seed pearls, a mark of mourning and remembrance; while the overgown is a deep, rich blue edged with a silver-thread trim. Her jewels are equally restrained, a simple silver chain with a sapphire-studded cross about her neck, while equal sapphires dangle from her ears, not quite enclosed by the lappets of her hood, embroidered with more silver-thread over a black ground and edged with fine pearls.

Watching her descend the stairs, Cromwell approves of her choice of dress, recalling a time when she would walk the court in garments of such flamboyant ostentation that none could ignore her presence. Then, of course, she was attempting to demonstrate her status in a Court that had not forgiven her for supplanting Katherine; and to match her husband in his absolute determination to prove to all the courts of Christendom that he was their equal, and more. Now, however, she has largely proved her point, and the importance at this time is to appear regal, sober and well-governed. Her understanding of that requirement is deeply ingrained, and to appear a morally upstanding maternal figure seems to be all-but second nature to her.

_Thank God Henry was taken first…_

He is shocked at the thought; but then he remembers how his late Master would react to almost any slight, imagined or otherwise; how impulsively he would strike out - often without warning. How many men lost their lives thanks to that capricious will? Would a time have come when it might have equally snuffed him out like one of those too-brief candles? Thanks be to Christ that he shall never know. Anne's temper is hardly less savage when truly unleashed - but she has already appreciated that to do so shall serve her most ill. She knows, as most do not, Henry's silent regret for those he destroyed once it was too late to undo the consequences of his anger.

He bows to her as she approaches, "Not, I think, the victory that you sought, Majesty."

Anne shakes her head. He can see, despite the application of cosmetics, that her eyes are still slightly reddened, as she grieves over the cruel consequences of Becket's pilgrimage, "Indeed no. If nothing else, I must learn the lesson that I can govern - but I cannot govern how others shall behave when I do so. I have been aware of it, of course - but did not truly appreciate it until this moment."

The bells of the great church are tolling when she leads her contingent of ladies and advisers from the Palace, following Cranmer, who is himself preceded by the Cathedral's great Processional Cross. His vestments are equally restrained, the cope a dark green with a gold-satin cross appliquéd upon it, his mitre of the same hue. Ridley walks to his rear, dressed altogether more simply in a black cassock and a plain, white surplice in the manner of the new English Church, rather than the lace edged frippery of the Roman style.

The route to the Cathedral via the cloisters remains empty, for the Queen intends to make her visit public, and the City Aldermen are present, along with the representatives of the City's guilds. Within, the bones of Becket have already been removed from the shrine and are now set in a coffin of the finest English oak, lined with ivory silk. Equally, a vault has been opened in the Chapel of St Anselm, though its presence shall not be made public. There is little worth in removing a shrine, only for people to create a new one in its place.A route into the church, and to the Chapel, has been carefully established using black drapes over wooden scaffolds to conceal the route that must be taken in order to preserve that secret.

The present grave, of course, shall be dismantled, and the fine stone from its construction made available for sale.

There are few others within the great Church as they enter through the enormous west door. Few are permitted entry to this place - and even the pilgrims were directed through a specially constructed tunnel beneath the stairs rising to the stone pulpitum so that the brothers would not be obliged to endure any contact with them as they made their way to the martyrdom. Now, however, the royal party makes its way along the nave as Cranmer intones the words of the funeral service, _I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth on me though he were dead, yet shall he live, an whosoever liveth and believeth on me, shall never die._

_I am sure that neither death, neither life, neither angels, nor rule, either power, neither things present, neither things to come, neither high, neither low, neither any other creature shall be able to depart us from the love of God, showed in Christ Jesu our Lord._

The men standing alongside the coffin are not Brothers, instead being the sextons of six of the nearby parish churches: selected for their discretion and charged with ensuring that the bones are appropriately interred, but also that the vault is carefully concealed.They have no knowledge of how the church is laid out, and will see nothing beyond the drapes that conceals all that might aid them to remember where they lay the remains into the earth. Those remains shall lie in consecrated ground, but they shall no longer be treated as a Godly presence upon the earth, instead allowing Becket's soul to rest unmolested by searching hands reaching in to touch his mortal remains in superstitious hopes that doing so shall somehow benefit them.

They remain in the nave, outside the Quire, where Cranmer preaches upon the requirement not to make graven images, before turning and passing through the pulpitum alone to lead the sextons through the passage of drapes to the vault. Watching him go, Anne sighs. Even she shall not know where those bones shall be from this day forth.

It is done. The battle is over - but nonetheless, she feels that there is no victor, and nothing has been won.


	36. A Dark Hound

Boleyn reads the letter and scowls, "God above, she has sold her soul to be still so preserved."

Looking up from the bread upon his plate, Brandon looks bemused, "What have you heard?"

"Just when it seemed likely that she had overstepped herself, my former daughter has still gained her own way." Boleyn tosses the letter across the table. To Brandon's surprise, the paper bears the seal of Norfolk. They have not heard from him in so long that he had assumed that the Duke had abandoned them. Perhaps not, after all.

_It has come to my ears that the Usurper of England has resumed her determination to overthrow the Church in England, and thus the closure of Religious houses continues apace. But, it seems that the people would not permit the removal of Canterbury's saint, and thus a gaggle of priests and abbots roused people to descend upon the seat of England's Church to protect him. They gathered within the precincts of the Cathedral church, where the brothers welcomed them as pilgrims._

_Then sickness rose amongst them, and it is noised about that God was not pleased with their actions against their Queen - even for the bones of a great saint. Many died in great distress - until the Usurper arrived with that vile heretic Cromwell, the turncoat Rich and that fool boy Boleyn, who now holds the title of Rochford in his own right._

_As her arrival came at the same time that the sickness began to abate, it is claimed that she was the remedy for it, and the living pilgrims were sent to the Greyfriars, before being dispatched home with bribes to purchase their silence and loyalty. Consequently, even the protest of the people has not ended the reforms in England - though heretics are no longer prevented from practising, and those who follow the true faith see their numbers begin to dwindle._

_It seems that the Bull has not achieved that which the Holy Father intended, and thus I must act. If you are able to secure a means of receiving it, I shall send funds to you so that you may establish an Embassy to speak for the claim of the true Queen of England, even though she is now chained to a heretic in Sweden. She must be championed, and I charge you with seeking a means to encourage her that she is not forgotten. Advise me of your requirements, and I shall provide the means._

Brandon's eyebrows rise, startled at such an offer. He has no idea how things stand in Sweden now - and again is obliged to rely upon Boleyn for such information, as he has the ear of the merchants. Setting the paper down, he examines his calloused hands, an undeniable symbol of his relative uselessness. Boleyn earns well, trading with the cloth merchants, but he lacks that expertise, and thus has been forced to expand their coffers as best he can through manual labour at the dockside. God above, he had never appreciated the reality of blood-burst blisters upon his hands until that day. Even when upon horseback, his noble flesh had been protected by gauntlets…

Scowling with resentment at the loss of his privileges, he turns back to the equally scowling Boleyn. God, if they were not bound together by their purpose, he would probably have knifed the duplicitous bastard by now; but instead he must endure the insufferable superiority, the sneering jibes at his enforced labour, and wonder whether he shall be permitted to resume something akin to his former noble state once they have sufficient funds to support the embassy that remains such a distant aspiration.

Boleyn is working his way through a small, black-bound ledger, noting down his earnings from the marketplace, which deepens Brandon's scowl all the more, for it is but a matter of time before his own pitiful contribution shall be demanded, and remarked upon. The only good thing that seems to have come of this day is the fact that Norfolk has decided to re-emerge from whatever pit of self-interest he conceals himself within, and provide them with the funds they need to actually appear capable of representing Queen Mary's interests. If God shall not remove the Usurper Anne, then it seems that He demands they act as His instrument. Thus they shall do so.

He looks out of the tiny garret window to the street below, where ordinary folk go about their business, and wonders how things are in England. It seems that the Holy Father's call to England's catholics has gone unheard, their silence purchased through this supposed act of settlement that permits them to worship unmolested. He is not blind - it is clear that the intention is to undertake a slow, quiet war of attrition - offering an education to the poor that shall tempt them away from the teachings of the true faith, and instead inculcate them into heresy. She, and that treacherous heretic Cranmer, are intending to instil this new version of religion by stealth - how can his Holiness not see that? Surely he is not unaware that the people of England are as suspicious of foreigners as they are faithful to God? A paradox, yes, but one that the Pope seems not to have appreciated.

"Well?" Boleyn's voice interrupts his contemplations, and he stiffens with impotent rage, "How much can you add to our coffers today?"

Stuffing his hand into the scrip at his belt, Brandon wrenches out the handful of _gulden_ that are all that he can earn thanks to his lack of skill. He cannot mend, nor can he repair. Instead he is obliged to pull hand-carts, lift bales of goods and stack kegs - none of which earn much. God, he was once rich enough to buy whatever he desired. Now look at him…

He is roused again by the thudding of a fingertip upon the tabletop as Boleyn taps it, impatiently, "I take it you shall be handing it over in the next hour?"

Grimacing to himself, Brandon hands over the small heap of coins. The sooner he can resume his appropriate state under the patronage of Norfolk, the better.

* * *

Anne is watching the chess pieces upon the board as though she expects them to come to life and do battle before her eyes. She has not reached for any of her men for nearly five minutes, and Cromwell watches her, concerned at her mood.

Elizabeth was delighted to greet her, of course, and was full of excited chatter about her lessons, the games she has played with Jane Radcliffe, and the naughty behaviour of Castor and Pollux. Indeed, she gave no sign of her sense of burden while she spoke to her daughter, instead laughing delightedly as Elizabeth told her of her little dogs' relentless teasing of a new garden-boy, and speaking to her in French, then in Latin, then in French again. To her daughter, Queen Anne seems absolutely at ease. Cromwell, however, can see that she is not.

Work is done for the day, and she has gathered her closest confidants about her as she has done from the first days of her Regency. Jane is at the muselar again, a delicate new coranto trickling from the keys under her dextrous fingertips, while her husband watches over her music and turns the pages for her. She has already sung some new ballads, and accompanied Rich as he did likewise, apparently recovered from his discomfort over the matter of Becket's bones. Anne, however, seems unable to so easily set it aside.

The last thing she did before departing Canterbury was to insist that she stand alongside Cranmer as he spoke benedictions for the souls of those who had been consigned to the ignominy of a mass grave in the haste to dispose of the sickness that resided within them. With no idea how it had begun, or how it winnowed its way through the gathered throng as it had, urgency had inevitably overcome dignity. In spite of the equal culpability of those who had stirred the people to come to the city, it could not be more clear to Cromwell that his Queen feels a great burden of responsibility for the deaths.

That is no surprise - she is a woman, and he recalls how his late, dear wife would feel misfortunes far more deeply than he. Perhaps it is the nature of women to dwell upon such things - though his own refusal to do so may equally be thanks to the sheer degree of unpleasantness that would break over him should he allow that barrier to drop.

He sits back in his chair, waiting for her to emerge from her reverie, giving the impression to all that he considers her silence to be deep thought over her next move. It does not last - instead she looks up at him, "Am I to blame?"

Her words silence Jane, who turns in surprise, while Rochford, Rich and Margery look equally startled at her question.

"Majesty?" Cromwell looks bemused.

"No matter how I turn it about," she continues, "I see only the faces of the dead - all there thanks to our determination to reform the church. They wanted only to protect their Saint, even though we did not mean him harm. Now they are forever in a pit, their names already forgotten."

Ah. That again - the fear of unintended consequences.

"I think not, Majesty." He says, picking his words with care, "We know that the Church has become a burden upon people, rather than a help; and that it has fostered and permitted unwarranted superstition. Nothing of value is ever gained easily, or without pain. Even now, it is claimed that the pilgrims had stirred God's wrath for standing against the will of their lawful Queen - though I do not think that to be so. Have we not before seen the emergence of the bloody flux in the midst of great gatherings of people? How it does so, I cannot claim to know - but it comes, as does the plague or the sweat. Perhaps it is the coming together of so many - the conflicting combinations of their humours breeds foulness, and thus gives rise to sickness. It was a sad incident, yes; but I cannot find any way to apportion blame to any single individual. No one emerged from their homes with the intention of dying - and those who left did so with their lives, knowing that they would not face punishment for their act."

She sighs, "I do not think my late Lord would have been so magnanimous."

"He would not have been." Cromwell agrees, "Magnanimity came to him but rarely, and mercy was a rarer gift still. To forgive his subjects for their defiance would have appeared to him to be an act of weakness, and thus he would have withheld such a kindness."

"I, however, have invested much time in presenting myself as a mother to my subjects, and thus I can do so without fear of being thought so, for is it not in the nature of a mother to forgive her wayward children?" Even now, Anne does not smile; for while it is in the nature of a mother to forgive her children, is it not equally in her nature to feel responsibility for their pain - even pain they have acquired themselves?

"It is hard to be a Prince." Rochford adds, quietly.

"It is, indeed." She sighs, "Forgive me; I was once a trivial creature who revelled in dresses, jewels and dances, and saw myself as entitled to be equal to my husband. It is only now - now that I have truly ruled - that I know that I was not ready for the burden, and learning to carry it is a hard thing. I may share my husband's fire and temper, but I lack his ruthlessness - and perhaps I should acquire at least a measure of it, for England might have need of it before my daughter's time to rule has come."

Cromwell smiles at her, a paternal expression that she has come to welcome, and even to seek to earn. In spite of all - even the betrayal of her father - she has begun to trust the man seated opposite in a manner that she never could with the one who had brought her up at Hever. Even now, it pains her to remember those early days - days when she was a beloved child, not a pawn in a power-play. Somehow, in earning the approval of a man far beneath her, she feels something of that happiness again. Roused from her sad lethargy, she resumes her perusal of the chessboard, and finally reaches for a piece.

* * *

"And people truly believe it to be God's wrath?" Chapuys asks, as Rich pours him some malmsey. It has been a simple matter to pretend that it is naught but a social call.

"Indeed so - and it is not something that the Treasurer wishes to discourage. The signs are that this year's harvest shall not be as bountiful as we have enjoyed over the last two years, and thus we must redirect discontent elsewhere." He pours himself a glass and sits opposite the Ambassador, "Otherwise, I fear that matters are quiet, and I have little to report."

"It may be that his Holiness shall be able to use this in some measure to aid those who still follow the true religion." Chapuys muses, "It is sounded upon the Continent that catholics in this realm hunger for one who shall aid them as their numbers fall, and their sense of safety dwindles in equal measure. Even as she remains within the walls of Gustav's new palace, the Queen Mary is still the hope of her true subjects."

_Like a dog returns to its vomit_. Rich thinks to himself, but smiles, keenly, "If that is so, then it would offer much succour to those who see their very way of life under threat." To his knowledge, the suspicion of foreigners and an almost instinctive loyalty to the realm of England holds far greater sway than any dreams of a counter-reformation, particularly now that those who wish to continue to hear mass are free to do so without fear of prevention. Does Chapuys not see it? Followers of the old faith - himself included if he is truly honest - are not even obliged to make some form of payment for the privilege of clinging to it. Who on earth would be fool enough to throw that peaceful state into confusion?

Quite a few, it seems.

"I am told that she is with child again." Chapuys adds, though this is not news to Rich, and he shows no surprise.

"I pray God that the babe shall live, and be healthy." He says, instead, "Tell me, what news of those upon the continent who look to restore the late King's first child? If she is now residing in Sweden, and thus is subject to Sweden's king, how can any speak for her independently?"

"You shall be most surprised, I think!" the Ambassador smiles, widely, "For it is remarkable how adversity has brought together two once implacable enemies and united them into a common purpose. The Concubine's own father, and the former Lord Suffolk now share a garret in Brugge; and, I am told, squabble like fishwives when they think none see them." He laughs at the thought, and Rich cannot hide his own smirk. While he is aware that the two are in Flanders, the thought of them being obliged to live in close proximity, and in such penury, is amusing. It seems that they have abandoned attempts to smuggle in pamphlets - but if they are still in such poor circumstances, there is little hope of their ever forming that longed-for embassy to speak for Mary.

"All is not lost, however," Chapuys continues, cheerfully, "I have received approaches from his Grace of Norfolk, seeking diplomatic channels through which he can supply them with funds to achieve their aim."

"Truly?" Rich leans closer, his expression intrigued, though his thoughts more inclined towards consternation. So much for Thomas Howard retiring into obscurity, "Do you require any assistance from me to aid you? I should warn you that his Grace does not trust me in the slightest - though that would largely be thanks to his intention of having me executed as soon as I had ceased to be of use to him. I think it might be worthwhile to consider a rapprochement."

"I shall talk him round, Mr Rich, I can assure you."

"I which case, I shall remain ready to offer what aid I can." He raises his glass, "Perhaps we may yet see the matter of England's true queen resolved."

Chapuys clinks his glass against Rich's, "Indeed so."

* * *

"So, Norfolk has emerged from his rat-hole again." Cromwell muses, as they share some more of Rich's Malmsey over a supper of venison and bread, "I assume you have taken steps to ingratiate yourself with the plot."

"Naturally."

"What of Chapuys's assertion that the Pope and his Cardinals believe that England's Catholics shall rise in rebellion against a Queen that does not prevent them from celebrating their popish superstitions?"

"I am not entirely convinced that he believes it - for he has lived too long in England to fail to see the insularity of Englishmen - but it is apparent that people upon the continent think it so. I have not yet heard whether the Pope intends to send priests to infiltrate English communities and attempt to overturn the reformation from within - but it would not surprise me if he did, as he is as convinced as any other that Englishmen would welcome it."

"For he knows not the minds of Englishmen." Cromwell sighs, "Do you think the Emperor shall become involved?"

"Not at this juncture." Rich shakes his head, "Not when matters are at such a state of infancy. If all were to collapse like the proverbial house of cards, then it would serve him ill to be clearly associated with it. I suspect that he shall leave Chapuys to do the work for him, and see how matters progress. At this time, Chapuys is only being asked to provide a concealed means of sending funds to Brandon and Boleyn to furnish an embassy for Mary." He pauses, "I think it unlikely that Mary knows of this."

"As do I." Cromwell muses, a chunk of venison poised upon the tip of his knife, "While I have no doubt that she would - if the opportunity presented itself - seek to grasp the Crown of England without hesitation, she is unlikely to have any nearby who could warn her of this. Only once an embassy has been established shall it be possible to even begin to insert an agent into her immediate retinue. Thus, should we wish to act, we shall have time."

"Do we allow this to happen?" Rich asks.

"At this point: yes." Cromwell says, "It is too soon to risk Chapuys becoming suspicious - if all were to falter within a day of his advising you, then he would know that you were the blab. No - it is best to allow matters to develop, and take steps as we need to." He pops the venison into his mouth, and sits back, chewing the mouthful speculatively.

"Perhaps we should send a message to our embassy in Sweden. If it turns out that Mary has accepted her new life there, and would not demand to claim England again, then no amount of plotting shall win the crown for her head."

Cromwell nods, "Indeed - though she has the pride ad stubbornness of both of her parents - and I do not believe for a moment that she has truly relinquished all hope of gaining the crown of England. Regardless of the invalidity of her parents' marriage, she remains our late King's firstborn, and has ever entertained the wish to rob her sister of her just inheritance, for she is convinced that that inheritance is her own. No - dangle this prize before her, and she shall snatch at it."

"Then let us hope that the new child in her womb shall survive."

"As shall she. I have no doubt that her lost babes have caused her great sadness. My greater hope is that the child shall be a boy, for then she shall be obliged to remain in Sweden - no matter what happens to her husband." Cromwell shifts in his chair, "I think it unlikely to succeed, but I may consider attempting to approach a member of Norfolk's household in hopes of gleaning more direct information about his activities."

Rich shakes his head, "It is a waste of time - his retinue have been with him for years, and their loyalty is well known. Not only would you fail to turn any of his servants, you would also alert him to your intended scrutiny. I suspect it would be better for me to further ingratiate myself with Chapuys and offer aid in establishing a means of communication between Norfolk and our exiles. We cannot intercept missives at the source, so it seems worthwhile to do so while they are in transit."

He is right - they both know it. Norfolk would easily discover any attempt to insert a spy in his household - but with Chapuys convinced that Rich has turned his coat once more, extracting letters while they are being passed between Arundel and Brugge shall be a far simpler prospect.

Setting down his cup of wine, Cromwell rises, "I shall advise her Majesty of your plan, Mr Rich - I have no doubt that she shall be pleased to agree to it. Even if Mary has no wish to associate herself with a plot such as this, it remains an inconvenience that we can well do without. I suspect that the need for secrecy shall keep matters slow - it may be some years before there is a fully formed conspiracy. Better, however, to know now and be prepared for it."

Rich nods, "I could not agree more."

* * *

The sun is setting, casting long shadows and a gentle light across the large Privy Garden. The air is warm, and the roses fragrant, while a few remaining birds sing to one another from the laurel hedges between the decorative beds. Most have sought their roosts for the night, but there is a little music to accompany the two people who walk slowly along the gravel paths.

"Does Mr Rich think it likely that Mary shall accept the creation of an embassy upon her behalf?" Anne asks. While they walk side by side, she does not link arms with her Lord Treasurer - even now she is not safe from malicious comments.

Cromwell shakes his head, "It is impossible to know, Majesty. I wish that I could answer such a question - but much shall depend upon whether or not her new pregnancy results in a birth. That, more than anything else, shall keep her in Sweden; even if her husband should - heaven forbid - pass away."

"God send him a long, long life." Anne sighs. Even now, the mention of Mary inspires a sense of bitter spite that she cannot easily quell. How foolish - the wretched girl attempted to snatch Elizabeth's crown, and failed. But even so, much of that failure rested upon the belief that God had smiled upon England's new queen - giving a bountiful harvest and protecting people from an outbreak of sickness during the summer. A poor harvest, or many dead from plague, could have ended matters very differently. In spite of her own poor experiences with it, there are times when Anne feels most grateful for the power of superstition.

They continue on in companionable silence, as though father and daughter. For a man who was robbed of his girls, and a woman whose father turned upon her, it is as though they have found a means to replace those taken loved ones, and rebuild a familial haven that they have each lost.

"I think I shall invite Mary and my mother to Court." She says, suddenly, "I was foolish to banish my sister from my presence - and over something so trivial as a marriage I considered to be inappropriate."

Cromwell nods, solemnly. It is no surprise to him that Anne looks now to family - following Wiltshire's abandonment of her for Mary, even her mother had withdrawn in response to the shame of it. With the news that her father still conspires against her, she is keen to bring her remaining family back to her, and rebuild those damaged bridges. If he could do the same, then he would - but one cannot bring a wife and daughters back from death.

Their conversation touches on matters of little note, reflecting that growth of trust between them as they make their way back to the Palace buildings in the last light of the day, until Anne turns to him, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell."

"For what, Majesty?"

"For walking with me in the darkest of places as we traversed the horrors at Canterbury. Throughout that dreadful time, I knew that I could trust you absolutely - and you proved me to be right."

"I made a promise to you, Majesty." He reminds her, "God knows that I have acted despicably in my service to the King - for he was a man who expected his will to be carried out immediately and utterly. There may be times when I shall be obliged to do so again - but I live in hope that such reprehensible behaviour shall no longer be required in the government of England."

She smiles at him, "You have such dreams, Mr Cromwell."

"Is it not the prerogative of men to dream, Majesty?"

"Of a better world." She adds, her smile widening, "For now you are no longer obliged to spend the monies that we retrieve from the unfairly wealthy upon the whims of a King."

They are still sharing mildly piqued comments upon the expense of a man who wanted to impress all of Christendom when they arrive in the Queen's Privy Chamber, to find that - far from being invited - her sister is already present, dressed in dusty garments, her eyes anguished, "Forgive me, Majesty, but I had to come to you, for I bear the saddest of tidings."

"Mary?" Anne stares at her, astonished, "No - do not ask forgiveness; I was this very evening thinking that it was wrong of me not to invite you here. What tidings do you bring?"

Mary's eyes are filling with tears, "I wish they were good, but they are not. My sister - it falls upon me to advise you that our dear mother has departed this life, and is now with God."

* * *

Anne sits in a chair, her eyes glassy with unshed tears, "When did this happen, Mary?"

"Two weeks prior, Majesty," Mary begins.

"No, I am not 'Majesty' to you, Mary. Please - in this time of sorrow, we are sisters."

She resumes, "It was quite sudden, Anne - I was visiting with William, and we had supped. She seemed well during the evening, and retired at her usual hour. But she did not wake the next morn - having passed in her sleep. The doctors could not determine how it had occurred - and thus she was embalmed and laid to rest in the tomb of her own family at Lambeth. His Grace of Norfolk permitted her to be buried there, but did not attend. There was no time to tell you."

Anne nods, "It would have mattered little - as Queen, I would not have been able to attend."

"I am so sorry, Anne…" Mary's eyes are also tearful, and the two embrace.

Cromwell shuffles slightly, but then speaks, "Shall I send for Lord Rochford, Majesty?"

Anne turns, wiping at her eyes, "Thank you, Mr Cromwell - I should appreciate that."

Lord and Lady Rochford are supping together in their apartments, a remarkable difference from those days when he was more likely to be in any woman's quarters other than those he shares with his wife. They are clearly enjoying one anothers' company, and Cromwell feels most intrusive.

"Mr Cromwell!" Rochford is cheerful, "Please - we have more than sufficient victuals should you wish to sup with us."

"Thank you, but I must decline." He bows, "Forgive my intrusion; but her Majesty requires your presence urgently upon a matter of family. If you could also attend her, my Lady?"

They both frown - concerned at his tone, for he would not speak so if the matter was not urgent, "What has happened, Mr Cromwell?" Jane asks.

"I think it best that her Majesty advises you; as I said, it is a matter of family."

He departs as they hasten from their chambers to the presence of the Queen, sighing to himself. That paternal half of his heart is demanding that he go with them, to offer comfort to Anne - but he has no familiar bond to her, and thus he cannot go. Instead, he returns to his own chambers. After all that she has done to win the day, and to learn such a harsh lesson about the absolute realities of rule, now she is truly orphaned. Thank God she has her siblings still.

But still he wishes to go to her - to offer her what comfort he can. There was a time when he delighted in the presence of his daughters, and his heart ached when they cried. That dark haired, ebony eyed woman has stolen into that emptied void where once they resided; but she knows it not, and it is better that it stay that way. He is not her father. He is her principal adviser…

Just an hour before, he had felt that there was something at last of a victory - albeit bittersweet; but now that dark hound of ill news has brought the joyous hind to bay - as though it is not permitted for those who rule to know happiness for more than the shortest of moments.

That, too, is a hard lesson to be learned. In time, of course, they must teach that to Elizabeth - but not yet. In time…in time…

Sighing to himself, he turns from the corridor that leads to the Queen's apartments, and makes his way back to his own.


	37. A Golden Prize

PART 5

**TEACHER**

* * *

Chapter 37

_A Golden Prize_

* * *

**Lady** **Day, 1543**

The girl with red-gold hair stands upon the dais, a table loaded with victuals before her, while all present watch with wrapt eyes, "I thank you for coming, my good Subjects. As we feast to celebrate the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and to begin a new year, I give you my word as your Queen that I shall be your servant as much as your Prince. _Etenim, iudices, cum omnibus virtutibus me adfectum esse cupio, tum nihil est quod malim quam me et esse gratum et videri. haec enim est una virtus non solum maxima sed etiam mater virtutum omnium reliquarum_."

She seats herself to the sound of delighted applause, not merely for her pronunciation of the latin, but for the choice of words, a quotation from Cicero upon the virtue of gratitude as a wellspring for all other virtues. Beside her, Anne smiles; her child is learning well, for it was not her choice to speak the words of Cicero, but Elizabeth's.

Life has not been as easy for her Subjects over the last five years - the fine harvests that opened her daughter's reign have faltered several times, and it is only the work to establish the charitable institutions in place of religious houses that has secured many from a cruel death from lack of sufficient victuals. The last of those moribund Houses was closed only last year, and the buildings now hold a grammar school, petty school, almshouses and even a small infirmary.

She looks across to the trestle where the Privy Councillors sit. Her Lord Treasurer is seated at the end of one of the benches, deep in conversation with Southampton. The two have led much effort to shore up the tottering financial foundations of the Realm; a task that even now is not yet complete. The monies raised from the closures of the religious houses have been quite scandalous, but such was her late husband's profligacy that even a substantial proportion of that extensive wealth has failed to do more than slightly mitigate their obligations to his creditors. Thus Mr Cromwell, along with George, Southampton and a small cadre of clerks, have worked determinedly to find ways of improving England's wealth and fortunes through investment of what funds that they _do_ have. Thanks to that work, the Treasurer anticipates that England shall be financially solvent again within the next three years. As long as they are not obliged to go to war, of course.

At Elizabeth's invitation, once her Chaplain has offered thanks for the feast, everyone is reaching for the victuals set before them, the elaborate nature of the dishes decreasing the further along the hall one sits. Even the platters upon the Queen's table are not as magnificent as they would once have been when Henry lived - the quantities are smaller, the degree of decoration less extensive. There are no pies dressed with gold leaf, no dishes of sauce-drenched meats that shall not even be touched as the diners shall be too overindulged to contemplate them. No - the selection is sufficient for all at the table to dine well, but not to the degree that the waste shall be obscene in its quantity. They are, however, all favourites of the young queen: well roasted mutton with glistening spices in a sweet wine gravy, enriched breads dripping with herb-butter, stewed venison in a thick pastry coffin decorated with sugared violets, flower-jewelled sallets and small ale sweetened with wildflower honey. The second remove shall contain the finest works of the pastry-cooks, but that is still to come, and Elizabeth is happily conversing with the French Ambassador in his native tongue, seated beside her in an honoured position, as Anne has never lost her affinity towards France. Chapuys is also seated at the high table - but at the furthest end, a placement that is reflected in his failure to completely conceal his disgruntlement at being so far from the presence of the Queen, while his French rival is at her side.

Watching from his position on the Councillor's table, Cromwell is quite relieved to have matters under consideration other than the financial position of the Realm. Keeping Chapuys disgruntled is helpful to their interests, as that perceived sense of insult makes him resentful, and more keen than ever to plot quietly in the background. He remains entirely unaware that his quiet plotting with Rich is known to the Queen Regent and her most prominent advisers - and thanks to that ruse, Cromwell knows far more than the Ambassador would ever wish to reveal about the efforts of the former Duke of Suffolk and Earl of Wiltshire to promote the interests of Queen Mary of Sweden amongst the foreign courts of Europe.

His mind turns to the exiled first child of Henry. She is, at last, a mother - her last pregnancy resulting in a healthy male child. The English Ambassador speaks of warm, loving relations between the King and Queen that are further warmed by her achievement in presenting him with an additional heir. It seems, then, that she is happy. He hopes that to be so - after all, if she is contented with her life in Sweden, she shall be less inclined to look towards the Crown of England with covetous eyes.

Returning his attention to his meal, he breaks off a piece of bread to dip into the thick sauce that surrounds his portion of beef. Vaguely, above the noise of more than a hundred people talking at once, he can hear the strains of a newly composed tordion courtesy of Mr Sacks, and wonders idly what has become of the tiresomely enamoured Mark Smeaton. The last he knew, the youth was in the employ of the de Veres of Oxford, and they were more than delighted to have the services of a musician that once performed for a King. Hopefully he has finally abandoned that dreadful calf-love for a Queen - but whether he has or not, there is no circumstance under which they would re-admit him to Court.

Another letter arrived yesterday, this one from the King of Bohemia, seeking Elizabeth's hand for his son and heir. That must be the sixth in the last two months. Now that she is approaching marriageable age - at least the age expected of royal women - and is showing signs of becoming quite the beauty, half of Christendom is keen to seek her hand for royal youths, though the other half would do so only if she were to abjure heresy and accept Popery in its place.

They all want to have England, of course - and the great challenge of ensuring that Elizabeth's Realm is not swallowed up by a foreign power has become more pressing than it was when she was but five years of age. As much as she wishes she could continue to ignore it, her Majesty the Queen Regent has begun to accept that the time is coming: Elizabeth must marry, and the time available to procrastinate is dwindling fast.

But tonight is not a night to think of such things. Elizabeth is shortly to begin her first true steps towards learning how to rule her realm: she shall attend Council meetings as soon as they resume in five days' time. Her presence shall be in an observational capacity only at this time - but nonetheless her days of childish pleasures are at an end. Queenly dignity is all, and even her leisure now must be undertaken with decorum.

They rise to sample the banquet course, leaving the stewards to void the meal before the evening's dancing can begin. Elizabeth is seated in a finely upholstered chair alongside her mother, receiving the guests of honour while Rochford stands alongside, acting as a formal steward to introduce those who are presented to her. Jane has retrieved a small plate of the Queen's favourite amusements, which she holds ready for Elizabeth to sample, should she wish to. Elsewhere in the side hall, people are mingling and chattering, impatient for the tables to be cleared so that they can engage in the childish rituals of Courtly Love on the dance floor.

"How strange it is." Rich observes, as Cromwell crosses to join him, "A mere seven years back, I was standing in a hall, wondering whether the Queen could continue to thrive in the face of the Seymour threat; and now she is Regent, the Seymour girl is ensconced in some manor in the country, married to a man of little note, while her dour brother is dead and his younger sibling holds Wulfhall."

"Indeed." Cromwell agrees, declining a cup of sweet wine from a passing steward, "Her Majesty has proved to have a pragmatic character that her late Lord lacked. I think we would not be where we are had she lacked it as he did. Have you news of our rebellious pair in Flanders?"

Rich smiles, "Not as yet - though I imagine that they are still seeking sufficient largesse to afford to appear a suitable retinue for a Queen who is not presently looking for one. It amazes me that they have made any progress at all." He adds, "They despised one another while they were at Court, so God knows how they deal with one another now that they are trapped in exile. What I wouldn't give to see them sniping at one another."

"My concern is that they seem resolutely unwilling to appreciate that England has become accustomed to their Queen and her mother." Cromwell sighs, "'Mother of the Realm' might have been spoken in jest, but it has proved to be the ideal means of persuading Englishmen to accept Queen Anne. I think they do not understand that the subjects of a Realm do not particularly care who wears the crown, as long as they have sufficient coin in their scrips to pay for their rent and victuals."

Rich nods, sagely. Being from the landed class of Gentry, he has never known true poverty, having been obliged to witness it only during the Regent's progresses. Given her concerns over the welfare of her daughter's subjects, it has been a distinctly distasteful education, but at least it is one that he has - albeit reluctantly - embraced.

At length, the hall is ready to reoccupy, and two rows of dancers form. It is no surprise to those gathered that Elizabeth has already begun to enjoy such entertainments, and there are many who wish to seek a turn about the floor with her, if nothing else to report back to their masters overseas her abilities at dance and conversation. Remarkably, she accepts their attention with aplomb, even though some of her partners are so near to their three score years and ten that they are obliged to shuffle rather than perform the steps.

Seated upon the dais, Anne watches her daughter, and wonders what thoughts are passing through the minds of those who dance with her. No - it is still far too soon to demand that she be wedded - but not to enter into a betrothal. Such is the way of things in royal circles. Marriages are made for political advantage, after all. Except for hers, of course.

Look at her - smiling, conversing, dancing with men old enough to be her great grandsire; already Elizabeth knows who she must charm, and thus she does so in spite of her still tender years. There is indeed a great promise of beauty in that candle-shadowed face, a golden prize that many Kings hope to win for their Princes.

But not tonight: that can wait for another day. Sipping at her glass of sweet wine, Anne sits back and smiles. The old year is soon to pass, and thus her daughter's first steps to majesty shall begin.

* * *

Brandon surveys the chamber with something akin to satisfaction. While it is not of the standard that he knew in England, the house is a vast improvement upon the ghastly hovel that he has been obliged to share for far too long with Boleyn. His loathing for the duplicitous bastard continues to grow even now, achieving such grandiose proportions that to have remained in that confined space for much longer would certainly have led to the unsheathing of a poniard, though its application would be first to unmentionable body parts before the relative mercy of burying the blade in his throat.

Perhaps he died at Barnet, and this grotesque existence is now his purgatory - trapped with a man that he despises, and required to remain so for the rest of time. Only the knowledge that the enterprise upon which they are engaged shall correct a dire injustice prevents him from taking a step further than merely imagining the slow, bloody murder of Thomas Boleyn. God be thanked that he now has a chamber of decent size, and with walls sufficiently thick that he no longer has to endure the pig-like snuffling at night when the blasted man snores.

At least the woman he views as the true Queen of England has fulfilled her duty to Sweden and given them the security of a second male heir - a feat that the Usurper failed to achieve in spite of her endless promises. He is pleased for her - despite the knowledge that her success has made their task infinitely more difficult. Why should any Court in Europe demand that she be sent back to rule England now that she is married to the King of Sweden? He had assumed that the Pope's edict of excommunication would provoke That Woman to act against her Catholic subjects - but it has not. Equally, it has not prompted them to act against her. Why should it? In spite of a sequence of poor harvests, careful management by the Government has ensured that grain prices have not risen out of the reach of poorer Englishmen, and even those with nothing have been able to seek out aid from state-funded poor-houses. No wonder they have not risen - the realm is at peace, trade is flourishing and even the meanest of peasants find that they have not been forgotten. England has not prospered to the same degree since the first Tudor sat upon the throne.

He refuses to accept that all is lost. Mary was the first born child to survive infancy, and she was born of a valid marriage as the child Elizabeth was not. By all rights, she should be upon the English throne - and his loyalty to the Lady, as well as her sainted mother and noble father, screams at him to correct that aberration.

The sound of heavy footsteps gives him cause to shudder. While they have now employed two servants and a cook, there is only one man in the house that walks so, and he refuses to look up as Boleyn enters the chamber without the courtesy of knocking.

"I have another letter from Norfolk." He says, brusquely, "What little he knows of matters at Court are set down therein - it seems that Elizabeth is being keenly courted by proxy through the auspices of most of the ambassadors. England is quite the prize, these days."

Brandon scowls to himself - the man is talking about his own granddaughter, for God's sake - as though she were naught but a bauble to be plucked for personal gain. The fact that she is considered in such terms by those who negotiate for her hand is inevitable - but for Boleyn to do so seems contemptible.

"What of the views of her Subjects?" He asks, not turning around.

"He knows nothing of that." Boleyn snorts, "Even when we were seated around the same table, it was my work that kept us informed, not his." The tone changes to scorn, "Do you hope that your fellow Papists have risen to throw out the heretics?"

Brandon's hands clench into fists. He has never believed that Boleyn's conversion was sincere; but, shorn of the need to be overt, the blasted man gives every sense of having no faith at all. Oh, to be able to denounce him for a heretic…

But he cannot. Boleyn has diplomatic contacts that Brandon lacks, and thus he has no alternative other than to endure this ongoing purgatory.

"The last thing that he offers is an additional sum of one hundred pounds, which shall be transferred to my Jewish banker in the next two months, as soon as he can arrange secure passage."

For the first time, Brandon does not shudder. Being beholden to Norfolk financially is hardly the best position, but it is that financial support that has enabled them to emerge from that vile hovel into marginally better quarters, and spared him the need to report to the docks for work each day. The callouses on his hands shall remain for years to come - but he can conceal them under leather gauntlets if need be.

"I shall set some of it aside to pay for an observer at the Swedish court." Boleyn continues, "Our overtures to foreign courts shall be dismissed forthwith if we cannot guarantee that the girl wishes to reclaim England for herself." Brandon hears a rustling of fabric as the man shrugs, "Now that she has a child to coo upon, perhaps she has decided that her life is complete and thus she no longer demands the unseating of another to claim a crown."

And the scowl is back again. No - Mary has always been loyal to England. Loyal to her late mother, and to her late father. It is her duty as the firstborn to rule England, and he shall not abandon her - just as she could never abandon that loyalty to her realm or her parents. As soon as she knows that there are men who shall speak for her, she shall certainly welcome the opportunity to reclaim England, and they shall find a way to make it happen.

* * *

The atmosphere in the Council Chamber is unusually benign, with everyone upon their best behaviour. Anne regards all present with rather narrowed eyes, expecting everyone to maintain a suitable level of decorum and courtesy, as she is not the only Queen in the chamber this morning.

Elizabeth eyes her Council with a nervousness that all present find rather appealing, if not outright endearing. She is a girl of but ten years, intelligent, graceful and well educated; in deference to her new position in the Government - albeit as an observer at this time - she is dressed most regally, though her hair is now encased in a fine French hood decorated with seed pearls and gold wire filigree: a gift from her mother.

All present bow to both the woman and the girl, and wait until they are seated before doing likewise. Then, at Anne's surreptitious nod, Sussex rises to his feet: as Lord Chancellor, it is his right to speak first.

"Your Majesty, allow me to welcome you to the deliberations of your Council for the first time. We are most pleased that you are at the head of our table, and I speak for us all when I pledge to you that we shall ensure that you are ever furnished with good advice, honest counsel and loyal service."

He bows again, and seats himself.

"I thank you, my Lord of Sussex," Elizabeth answers, a woman's words spoken with a child's voice, "I am pleased to be seated with my Council at last, and I pledge to you that I shall consider your advice, heed your counsel and accept your service."

Anne smiles to herself as her daughter speaks. She has not needed to prompt Elizabeth, or to provide her with the words of her short speech. Her only concern is that the matters under discussion are a careful balance between the interesting, and the dull. It would not do to tire her daughter with discussions that are of little interest to her - but it would serve her equally ill to grant her a false impression that all matters considered by the Council are enjoyable to hear.

Cromwell rises to his feet, "Majesties, I have received a request from a number of the livery companies to institute the construction of a system of paved roads between the larger towns of England. While our ports are now well prepared for the exercise of trade, goods that are brought ashore are then required to be transported along rough tracks, which are dusty and rough in summer, and quagmires in winter. The matter has been one of our intentions for some years - but we have fought to find the time to implement it. Thus - quite understandably - they wish to petition her Majesty the Queen to consider their concerns."

Anne turns to her daughter, who looks back at her briefly, before realising that it is she who is being consulted, "Thank you, my Lord, I should be pleased to do so."

Smiling at her, Cromwell nods, "Yes, Majesty." He takes his seat again, clearly opening the matter for discussion, and Russell rises to his feet, "In my capacity of Lord High Admiral, Majesty, I would agree with the Lord Treasurer that England shall be well served to construct proper roads. Forgive me for raising a spectre such as this - but we are a small Kingdom, and thus must be ever ready to defend ourselves from those who would look upon us with covetous eyes. I think that to have well paved roads would be beneficial not only to trade, but also to our defence should we be obliged to move arms and troops with haste from one part of England to another. Matters are, however, most settled at this time, so it seems that to do so now would be sensible."

Anne listens as the councillors discuss the idea - albeit extensions of discussions undertaken previously following the plans to recommence the dissolution of the Monasteries. There was a time when the highest nobles would have scoffed at such a thought - partly because their wealth insulated them from the difficulties encountered by most when attempting to travel, but mostly because the idea had been mooted by trades-folk. Even her own father - a man from trade stock - would have done so. Certainly, Norfolk was contrary enough to have opposed it upon principle alone.

Whether or not the councillors are being particularly courteous to one another because of Elizabeth, the discussion is useful and interesting, and she can hear the scratching of a nib as Sadleir, seated behind her, carefully notes all that is discussed in order to produce a written report that Cromwell can use to establish a proposal to put to the Liverymen. Was it like this for Henry? She wonders, yet again, as they move on to discuss a number of bills under consideration by Parliament in relation to tax reforms, and is not surprised that Elizabeth's attention begins to wander. She is pleased, however, to note that it takes nearly twenty minutes before her interest begins to wane.

Cromwell has, however, been mindful of the young girl's forbearance, and turns to Rich to present the last item: the summer Progress.

"As your Majesty shall be aware," He begins, "your progresses to date have not travelled far from London, so it is our intention that we depart slightly earlier this year, in order that you are able to visit the city of York."

Anne conceals a smile at the indulgent expressions upon her Councillors' faces as Elizabeth's face lights up at the prospect of such an expedition. For all her Majesty, she is still a child, and it seems to her that all of the men at the table regard her almost as much a favoured niece as their Queen. While she is pleased, she makes a mental note to keep watch upon it - it would not do for them to fail to move from indulgence to respect as her daughter comes of age.

Discussion now centres upon where they might stay, who they might meet and what towns they shall visit. It is all - perforce - speculative at this time, but all at the table see it as a reward for Elizabeth's patience with the altogether drier subjects that have been discussed prior; and, by the time the Councillors rise, Sadleir has an impressively long list of suggestions to work through for his eventual report.

Once Elizabeth has departed to meet with her tutor, however, Anne's face falls, "I cannot ask her to stay for the last matter we must discuss."

Cromwell sighs, and the group of men resume their seats again. They, too, look rather guilty at the deception; but as Elizabeth is not yet of suitable age to do so, it seems momentously unfair to expect her to listen as they discuss a matter that shall impact upon her more heavily than any other: her marriage.

Rochford rises to his feet, having accepted the task of assembling the list of youths whose suits had been presented to Anne by their Kingdoms' ambassadors. As the Queen's uncle, Anne wishes for a matter so sensitive to remain within what is left of her family as much as possible. With all the other matters pressing upon her time, she has also asked Mary to aid her brother with the matter, to ensure the inclusion of a woman's perspective as much as can be achieved.

"As you asked, Majesty, I have restricted my list to youths who are not set to inherit the Crowns of their realms." He begins, "Thus they shall be free to travel to England, and the realms from which they have come shall not swallow England up through the children of their union. Furthermore, Mr Rich and I have considered the strictures that shall be set in place to ensure that a Consort of the Queen shall not become a King over her, while those with whom we ally shall not require us to enter into wars that are not of our concern."

"And that shall be the stumbling-block, shall it not?" Anne admits, "What man would willingly submit to his wife in any matter of authority? How, then, shall we persuade a prince to be a husband, but not a master?"

"Madame Stafford suggested that the best means would thus be to engineer a love match." Rochford answers, "Though I fear that even that shall be tempered by the discovery that the prince concerned shall have no power of command over his wife."

In spite of herself, Anne cannot conceal a smile. How like Mary to make such a suggestion - she has always followed her heart over her head, even to the point of angering her family and losing her place at Court. It is only now that they are all - effectively - orphaned that she has been permitted to return. In the face of so much loss, Anne has no wish to be separated from her siblings, and thus both Mary and her family are installed in apartments once again.

"It shall be hard to find such a youth, that I shall admit," Rich adds, "but perhaps not impossible. Thanks to the wars that were ended with your late grandfather-in-law, we have found ourselves an obscure realm upon the edge of larger, wealthier nations who have noted us only when convenient to do so. The peace and stability that has followed her Majesty's reign to date has begun to improve our fortunes considerably, and we are looked upon with less scorn than once we were. Thus our bargaining position is stronger than it was when her Majesty was a princess whose birth was not considered to be legitimate in some quarters. It may be that for their son to be in a lesser position to hers in exchange for a political alliance might be politically expedient - but I would advise that we find some means to grant at least a degree of autonomy and responsibility to any consort of her Majesty to forestall bitterness or disputes."

Anne nods, "Thank you, Mr Rich - and also you, my Lord. I am grateful that you have given the matter such careful thought. I shall consider the list, and advise you of my thoughts at our next meeting. My Lord Treasurer, I should be grateful if you could present a report upon the proposals made at this meeting concerning her Majesty's proposed summer progress before the end of this week. If there is no other business to be discussed, then this meeting is at an end."

There is a short silence, before the Councillors rise with her, then bow and depart.

* * *

The small group seated around the table have supped well, and share plates of sweetmeats and glasses of a fine madeira wine as they talk quietly in candlelight. Sipping at her wine, Anne smiles as her brother makes a foolish joke, and reaches for his wife's hand with genuine affection. So much has changed since those tense days in her former Privy Chamber, and certainly those with whom she now associates are not those who shared her time when she was Henry's wife.

She is particularly pleased to have Mary at the table, though her husband is not currently at Court despite an invitation to reside there, and the two have spent much of the evening continuing to reacquaint themselves, while her two most trusted advisers have been talking extensively of their plans for their primary residences outside the palaces. Surrounded by family, she feels able to host Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich without fear of foolish comments and innuendo.

"Could you play for us, Jane?" she asks, suddenly, "I am keen to hear the _ballades_ that you have been practising."

"Of course, Majesty." It is no chore to Lady Rochford, and she rises from the table to cross to the nearby virginals as Rochford watches her with surprising pride. It seems as though his wish to put her away and seek another wife belongs to another world entirely; and the worst excesses of his behaviour were inspired by their father: that rank, naked ambition to rise as high as he could capturing his son and teaching him to be just as bad. As Anne regards her brother, she can see that something is not usual, "George - what is it?"

He turns, slightly surprised, "Majesty?"

"You are keeping something from me. What is it?"

"Er…" he pauses, then looks across at this wife, who pauses briefly, then nods, "We had not thought to speak of it so soon - for we wanted to be sure."

Anne's eyes widen, as she begins to guess their news, "Jane?"

Her expression joyful, Lady Rochford crosses back to the table, "Forgive me, Majesty - we had intended to wait before we advised you, but it seems my husband's joy is such that to do so is quite impossible. I am with child."

Mary claps her hands excitedly, "That is wonderful news! My heartiest blessings upon you both!"

Her eyes glistening, Anne reaches out to clasp Jane's hand in both of hers, "And mine, Jane. I am delighted for you both - if you wish to retire from Court, then I shall not stop you; but I hope very much that you shall remain, for I should be most pleased to offer you the care of her Majesty's doctors, and the best midwives. Moreover, it would please me even more greatly to share this wondrous experience with you - for there is no greater joy than to know that there is life growing beneath your heart."

"Thank you, your Majesty." Jane blushes, "I should be pleased to remain at your side."

"Good." Anne beams, "Thus I am not obliged to find another player to entertain me upon the virginals."

Chuckling, Jane returns to the keyboard, as Anne turns her attention to Cromwell and Rich, who are both looking slightly embarrassed to have intruded upon such a family occasion, "Primero, gentlemen?"

* * *

"Perhaps we should hold our council meetings out here, Mr Cromwell."

The air is warm, and scented with roses as Anne strolls through the privy garden, her Lord Treasurer at her side. As always, they are not alone together; Rochford and Rich are two paces behind, while Nan and Margery bring up the rear. To be seen in each others' company would serve neither of them well, despite the disparity in their ages: the work of years could be undone in a single moment of unguarded and false gossip.

"If your Majesty wishes it, I shall arrange for the council table to be dismantled and brought outside for your pleasure." He smiles at her, "Though I fear that it would bring business almost to a halt, so distracted would we be by the wonders of nature."

She chuckles, "I can imagine - Mr Cranmer in the midst of a treatise upon matters of an ecclesiastical nature, only to stop and ask, _is that a robin, perchance?_ "

His smile widens at the thought, before he returns to the matter in hand, "You have received correspondence from his Grace the Duke of Florence, who has appointed a new Ambassador to England in hopes of forging an alliance with England, as it seems that the Emperor is looking upon the northern states of Lombardy and Tuscany with covetous eyes."

"If he thinks that we shall go to war upon his behalf, then I think it wise to disabuse him of such a notion at the first opportunity. When is this Ambassador expected to arrive?"

Cromwell looks a little sheepish, "I fear that he has assumed we would welcome his representative, and he is already present in England."

"And you knew it not." She finishes, smiling at his discomfiture.

"His name is Francesco Conti, Majesty," Cromwell continues, "He has apparently rented a house upon the Strand along with his wife and two daughters. There is a son, but he has remained in Florence as he is well placed with a Banking house, and his wife has recently given him their second child."

Anne nods, "Send him an invitation to attend Court upon the feast of Pentecost this Sunday, where we shall accept his credentials."

"Yes, Majesty."

"What of Elizabeth's progress?" she asks, prompting him to turn to the two men behind, who have been working on an itinerary. Knowing his limitations in terms of remembering details, Rochford allows Rich to step forth, and Cromwell steps back to join him.

"We are looking to visit a number of towns upon the journey north, Majesty." Rich consults a paper that he has pulled from a wallet, "At this time, we propose that her Majesty visit Cambridge, Peterborough, Leicester, Nottingham, Doncaster, Pomfret and then York. We have identified a number of Manors that would be capable of hosting her Majesty and the Court, and there are various residences now held by the Crown that shall also serve to accommodate the retinue."

"Are the prospective hosts aware of the honour heaped upon them?" Anne asks, slightly sardonically; she has learned from her Lord Treasurer the costs incurred by those who accommodate a royal retinue - and also the years required for some of them to recover from it.

"At this time, no." Rich admits, "Our concern at present is to identify those who shall travel with us, which shall thus determine which manors are to be approached." He pauses, "It is our thought that perhaps it might be appropriate to mitigate the cost of our visit with a grant of monies to lessen the financial burden."

"I consider that to be sensible." Anne approves, "My husband would have rejected the prospect outright, and I fear that - in my enamoured state - I would have done likewise. I am wiser now, I think. I have worked hard to earn the love of my daughter's subjects, and I would not wish to squander it by imposing a ravening horde upon them that filled their eyes with glittering jewels, but robbed their bellies of every scrap of victuals in the county."

Rich nods, sagely; he has worked with Cromwell long enough to know that the Lord Treasurer has at least in part inspired such a change of heart. Only one who has come from the gutter can truly understand the tribulations of those who are not bejewelled and clad in satin. Indeed, it is a lesson that he has also been obliged to learn as he has amended his regard of the man who now walks behind him.

Anne considers his words, "Thank you, Mr Rich - and you, also, George. I am content with the proposals as they stand. Please continue to enquire with those who might host her Majesty, and establish a route for the progress to take."

"I shall have it ready for you as soon as possible, Majesty."

She smiles again, and they continue their walk. In the hands of such capable men, it shall not be long before they can escape the Palace, and Elizabeth can meet her subjects once more.

First, however, she must welcome yet another new ambassador.


	38. The Ambassador's Wife

Reverend Rawson's homily is upon a verse from the book of proverbs, advising his congregation that the righteous shall not know hunger, though he casts it as hunger for God's grace than more mundane requirements. Having retained his place as Chaplain to the Queen, rather than to the King, he has been obliged to revise his theological outlook somewhat; but he has not opposed reform, and seems content to accept the changes to the practice of faith in the Chapel Royal - perhaps in the knowledge that he shall likely lose his preferment if he does not.

His words are carefully rendered, however, for not all present in the Chapel are of a reformist bent. While there is an Ambassador's chapel, out of courtesy to those who represent Catholic Princes, today's festival is a great celebration of Pentecost, and thus all are invited - and present. It does not do to suggest that one's guests are unwelcome in the sight of God.

The congregation are seated - a new innovation - and all listen dutifully until Rawson descends from the pulpit to prepare for the sacrament of communion. Once, Henry and Anne would have been served communion in either the King's or the Queen's closet, depending upon whether they were together, or apart. Now, however, she prefers to be present with the rest of the Court. Even now, after nearly eight years, she does not feel secure to worship separately, for fear that people might claim that she does not worship at all.

It has been nearly a year since she was last at Hampton Court, and she emerges from the Chapel ahead of the rest of the congregation, as the primary entrance leads into a covered passage that would not normally be traversed by one as elevated as she. Margery is with her, while George and Jane saunter behind, arm in arm and showing a degree of affection that warms Anne's heart, though there are tinges of envy too - for they share a love that she can barely remember from her own marriage, so long has it been since its end.

Elizabeth walks ahead, talking quietly to Mistress Champernowne about her forthcoming marriage to John Astley, while Lady Bryan walks behind with several newly appointed ladies from a number of noble houses, though Jane Radcliffe is at the forefront, reflecting her friendship with the Queen.

Nan escaped from the Chapel as soon as the Grace had been spoken, and has organised a basin of scented water for Anne to wash her hands. She resides in the quarters she once occupied when married to Henry, while Elizabeth has now taken up residence in her father's accommodation with a household of her own. While it is a natural progression as the young Queen leaves the earliest days of her childhood behind, it is hard for her mother, who has become accustomed to sharing her apartments with her daughter.

"Mr Cromwell is without, Majesty." Nan reports as Anne dries her hands, "Shall I ask Michael to admit him?"

She nods, "Thank you, Nan." Their discussion is not essential, but she is grateful for it, as she is unfamiliar with Florence, and is keen to learn at least something of use before she meets her new Florentine Ambassador. Having lived there for a while in his youth, he seems a helpful source of that information.

She smiles as he enters and bows, "Thank you for coming, my Lord Treasurer." She indicates a chair for him, "Please, be seated. Have you met Signor Conti at all yet?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Not yet, Majesty. He has not presented himself at Court in person - but he has asked that he be permitted to present his credentials accompanied by his family, and hopes that - perhaps - his daughters might be considered to serve her Majesty - though they are both grown. I think it likely that he hopes to find English husbands for them, for they are certainly of a marriageable age."

Anne smiles, "I would not object to that, Mr Cromwell. While I cannot make promises, for the appointment of ladies to her Majesty is now as much her province as mine and she may prefer younger attendants, Signor Conti is welcome to bring his wife and daughters to Court."

Cromwell nods, "I shall ask Mr Sadleir to send a messenger to advise him. I believe he has taken a house a short distance from Richmond Park for the duration of the Court's residence at Hampton."

"I look forward to meeting him." She admits, "It is always a pleasure to meet a new Ambassador."

Returning to his desk to deposit his papers before the midday meal, Cromwell thinks over the matters that are currently occupying his attention. The organisation of the Progress has been taken up by Rich and Rochford, who have developed an excellent ability to work well together on such matters, while the last works to complete the closures of the Monasteries is in Wriothesley's capable hands. He has received a letter from the Ambassador to Sweden reporting that Queen Mary was most grateful for her sister's kind words upon the birth of her son, and she seems to have found a completion in motherhood that was lacking in her quiet existence in England. Whether or not she shall resume her quest to claim Elizabeth's crown remains to be seen - but at present, it seems unlikely.

Rich is not present, which does not surprise him - for no one would normally attend the offices on a Sunday. He is present only briefly, before returning to the hall, where his colleague has saved a place for him at the table reserved for the councillors, "I have set aside the papers that are current, Mr Cromwell." Rich advises, as Cromwell sits alongside him, "Mr Paget has agreed to look after my work in my absence."

Cromwell nods, remembering that Rich has secured a month's leave from Court to attend to his properties in Essex, "If there is any matter outstanding, I shall take care of it."

The pair rise with the rest of the assembly as the door from the watching chamber opens to admit the Queen and her mother with their ladies. The Rochfords are with them, and they take their seats at the high table, though there is a space left for the new Ambassador once he has presented his credentials - an honour that Anne has taken to reserving for all newly arrived Diplomats upon their arrival.

"Did he not bring a family with him?" Rich asks, quietly, as they wait for the Ambassador to make his entrance.

Cromwell nods, "He did - but they shall be introduced in private this evening, so that they can talk more freely. I shall attend, along with the Lord President - and, if you are not too engaged in packing for your journey, you are welcome to be present."

Rich looks cheerful, "I suspect that the supper shall be more enjoyable than any victuals that I can secure for myself. I shall most certainly attend."

Cromwell snorts with mild amusement, then straightens slightly at the sound of a fanfare, and a loud voice proclaims, "Your Majesties, My Lords! His Excellency, Signor Francesco Conti, Ambassador for the Florentine Court of Duke Cosimo!"

All crane their necks to see the man who enters. He is richly - but soberly - dressed in beige velvet with a dark sable trim and his selection of jewels is tasteful. His expression seems kindly, and remarkably honest; a rarity compared to the wily men who represent the Empire and France. Bowing with careful precision to ensure that he is polite, but not florid, he approaches Elizabeth, and presents the document from his master that confirms his appointment, and requests that he be afforded the appropriate protections from his hosts.

Rochford accepts the document to pass to his Queen, and she receives it with a smile that charms the new arrival, "Thank you, Signor Conti. I am pleased to accept your credentials from his Grace of Florence. Welcome to my Court; please, be seated." She looks back to Rochford, who bows and escorts the new arrival to his seat.

The Pentecost feast, once presented, is a magnificent array of victuals. Such a display is rare in Elizabeth's Court, for profligacy remains a vice in Anne's eyes, and unwarranted expense is still to be avoided as much as can be managed. Today, however, the dishes are extensive and carefully presented, sides of beef, flocks of mutton, gaggles of capons and mountains of the finest manchet bread for the sauces that coat the meats. Equally, the second remove consists of clear, glistening broths, sugared fruits in wine jellies and sweetened breads that draw appreciative comments from all present. Cromwell is not surprised to see that Rich is looking rather unwell by the end; he has never been able to resist gingered bread.

By late afternoon, Anne and her daughter have returned to the Queen's apartments, where Elizabeth is now learning to play Primero - and proving to be as skilled at the game as her mother. Margery is looking most dismayed after a mere hour of the game, while Jane appears rather smug, as she is the best player at the table, and is doing very well out of it.

Their discussions are of light matters and foolish gossip, centring mostly upon the gowns that Elizabeth shall take with her on progress, and the hours pass quickly, causing the four women to look up in surprise as Matthew enters discreetly, "Majesties, my Ladies, the Lord President, Lord Treasure and Lord Privy Seal are without."

"Are they not early?" Elizabeth looks very startled at their failure to notice the time, despite the presence of a rather pretty ornamental clock upon the mantel of the fireplace.

"No, Majesty." Matthew confirms, "They have arrived at the appointed hour."

Embarrassed, Elizabeth looks to her mother, who merely smiles, "Go with Margery, my precious. I shall supervise the clearing of the table while you prepare yourself to meet Signor Conti and his family. They shall not be here for another quarter hour."

"Yes, Mama." Hastily, the girl rises from the table and follows Margery through to her dressing chamber to change into the gown she had planned to wear.

The three arrivals smile collectively at the sight of frantic tidying, "Might some assistance be welcome, Majesty?" Cromwell asks, facetiously.

"Most certainly." She agrees, standing to one side as the three Councillors advance to assist with the removal of the table back to the side of the chamber, "Though I am wondering if it might have been better to welcome the Ambassador and his family in the Presence Chamber rather than in here."

By the time they are done, Elizabeth has returned, having exchanged her russet overgown for a magnificently embroidered garment in a fine dark green that is complemented by the same fabric upon her hood. In spite of herself, she is still slightly embarrassed to receive the bows of her Councillors, but smiles as they do so nonetheless.

Thanks to the hasty work by Anne and her Court Officers of State, they are prepared for the arrival of the Ambassador, and both Anne and Elizabeth are seated as Matthew shows in Conti and his family. He has changed since his appearance in the hall, and is dressed now in a fine crimson doublet with a sable-trimmed simarre, "Your Majesty," he bows with that same economical courtesy, "I am most grateful to be invited into your presence."

His English is impeccable, and Elizabeth accepts his bow, "You are most welcome, Excellency. I am pleased to meet your family."

He steps back to join the three women who have entered with him, "Allow me to introduce my daughters, Francesca and Anna."

The two young women are clearly well grown in age, but still marriageable. Both seem to share the kindly countenance of their father, and each curtseys with grace, "Majesty."

Smiling indulgently, Conti turns back to the last woman present, "And my dear wife."

The woman who steps forth was clearly once very beautiful, and traces of that beauty remain in a gentle face from which a pair of beautiful eyes look out. Eyes of a most remarkably vivid green - a sea-green that sings of sun kissed waters and far-off climes…

Beside her, Anne hears a sudden, sharp intake of breath. Bemused, she turns briefly, to see Cromwell is standing remarkably rigidly, as though attempting to conceal a great deal of emotion. He is good at it - and she turns back to see that no one has noticed his behaviour.

"Your Majesty," even the woman's voice is beautiful - a musical lilt that is richly seasoned with an accent, "thank you for your kind hospitality." She curtseys exquisitely, despite a mild stiffness owing to her age.

Blissfully unaware of the odd moment of shock behind her, Elizabeth smiles happily, "I am very pleased to meet you. Please - there is sweet wine ready for you, and comfits. Shall we all be seated together? I would be delighted to introduce you to my Court."

There are smiles all round, and Elizabeth, with Jane at her side, ushers the arrivals to a gathering of chairs near the fire. Behind her, Anne beckons to Cromwell, and takes him to one side, "What is wrong?"

For a moment, he seems unable to speak, "Forgive me Majesty; I was not prepared for…" he looks across at the group, where the Ambassador and his family are seating themselves alongside the other senior councillors.

"What?"

"Her…" his voice is a mere whisper, "I thought her lost forever…entombed in a convent."

Anne's eyes widen as she begins to understand.

"She is my lost love." He murmurs, very softly "Benedetta."

* * *

Busy at his desk with a long list of possible hosts for Elizabeth on her progress, Rich looks up only occasionally to see across the large office chambers to see that Cromwell seems not to have made any attempt to work upon the papers set before him. Instead, he is seated in his chair, lost in thought; and has been so for more than an hour.

There would once have been a time when he eyed his colleague with annoyance for such behaviour, in spite of its uncharacteristic nature; but those days have long passed, and their partnership has long since evolved into friendship. Concerned he rises to his feet and crosses to find out what the problem might be. Mindful of the watchful eyes of the clerks, who gossip as freely as old women, he carries some papers with him, "Forgive my intrusion - there is a matter pertaining to the progress that I wish to discuss; might we adjourn to another chamber?" Sometimes he thinks it would be more helpful if Cromwell had a private chamber in which to work.

He frowns slightly at the lack of a vocal answer; instead, Cromwell rises and the pair leave in search of a quieter place in which to talk. It is immediately clear that he knows precisely why Rich has asked him to depart the main offices, as he does not hold out his hand for the papers.

Rich looks slightly uncomfortable, but forges ahead, "Forgive me if it is not a matter upon which you wish to speak; but the clerks are beginning to comment amongst themselves at your silence and inaction. What has happened?"

Cromwell does not reply at first, instead crossing to a chair and sitting rather heavily. Frowning, Rich grasps another chair and sits opposite. Whatever is wrong - it is clearly more than a minor matter.

"I would prefer not to discuss it." He admits, after a moment, "But I am troubled by a challenge to my assumptions and faith - for I believed something to be so, only to find that it is not."

Bemused, Rich does not answer.

"When I was a youth," Cromwell resumes, "a sequence of events caused me to all but abandon my faith, for I believed that God could not countenance that which had been done in His name - or, if He could, that he was not a good and kindly Lord. I regained faith with Him again in time, for I found the reformed faith. But - until yesternight, I thought myself to be fairly grounded in my anger. But now…" his voice trails off.

"I assume that this challenge has occurred through the arrival of the Florentine Ambassador?"

He nods, "In doing so, he showed me that the incident that caused me to turn upon the Roman church was not as I had supposed, and that I had based my entire anger upon a foundation of sand." Cromwell pauses, "Though nonetheless, the actions of those who led me to that belief were reprehensible and thus I would not exchange my faith for that which is now mine. It seems, however, that their motives might have been entirely more worldly than religious."

"It sounds to me as though you are speculating." Rich muses, "Is it not better to speak to his Excellency to determine the truth of the matter?"

Cromwell smiles slightly; such is his reputation that it has not occurred to the Lord Privy Seal that the matter of contention concerns a woman. Perhaps that is better: while he has now learned to trust Rich, who has responded to that trust with altogether more loyal trustworthiness, it remains a matter of deep personal pain, and he has no wish to share it with any. Only the Queen is aware of it - and he wishes it to remain that way, "Indeed, Mr Rich. I think that to be the best course. Forgive me - I shall endeavour to apply myself to my work for the rest of the day, thereby depriving the clerks of a matter upon which to gossip."

As they rise, Rich knows that he has not been told the real story - but for the first time in his career at Court, he is not resentful over that silence. That he has been trusted with even as little as this is rather more than he has ever deserved - and he equally knows that, should it become necessary to share the confidence, Cromwell shall do so. Besides, with all the work he has ahead of him upon the Progress, he shall be far too busy to speculate.

He smirks slightly at himself; it seems that he is another man who has changed his fate thanks to a change of reign.

* * *

Elizabeth is seated at a table, working her way carefully through another passage in latin - this one being translated into Spanish. When she is done, she shall translate it into French, at which point Master Grindal shall compare the two. Sitting nearby, Anne works upon a small embroidery, a detailed piece of white-work that decorates the corner of a fine linen kerchief. If it meets her satisfaction, she might well gift it to one of the ladies of her retinue.

Nearby, Francesca Conti is seated with Mistress Champernowne, and the two are engaged in quiet discussions of her trousseau for her coming nuptials to Mr Astley. Certainly the elder Conti daughter has become a very welcome addition to the small group of women present in the chamber, though the younger, Anna, is far shyer and remains with her mother, for her English is not so strong, and she appears uncomfortable in the presence of Ladies whose conversation she struggles to understand.

The great surprise, however, is the discovery that their mother is the woman who was supposedly immured in a Convent in Florence in her youth. Anne does not doubt the word of her Lord Treasurer, the sincerity of his words evident in the sadness of his tone, and that lone tear that fell to the tabletop when he spoke to her of the matter. It is more than likely that the young woman was indeed dispatched to a convent, but somehow, between that moment, and her expected postulancy, she found a way to escape it.

There is, of course, only one way to discover how that occurred; and that is to ask her. Anne has no doubt that Cromwell is eager to do so - but he cannot without placing them both at risk of scandal. She knows from her own experiences that the Court is a den of gossip, and nothing stays undiscovered for long. In spite of all, her Lord Treasurer still receives a great measure of dislike and distrust from her more highly born Courtiers, and the chance to spite him in such a fashion would be eagerly grasped. If nothing else, it would shatter his reputation - but she is hardly unaware that her Uncle remains in the shadows, equally eager to snatch any opportunity to proclaim her unfit to rule - even one that would not so much as touch upon the fitness of a man to do so. A scandalous liaison between her most trusted adviser and a diplomat's wife would certainly pique his dangerous attentions.

While Mr Cromwell is certainly discomfited by her arrival, it seems that Signora Conti is not aware that the man to whom she was introduced last night was once a youth whom she loved. Either that, or she is highly adept at concealing her feelings; but then, it is an unfortunate woman in such high circles who is not.

"Majesty." She looks up from her hoop to see that Michael is before her, "Signora Conti has arrived with her daughter."

She smiles, "Thank you Michael, please show them in."

In the light of day, it is clear to Anne that Benedetta Conti may have aged in the tens of years that have passed, but nonetheless that beauty that so captured her Treasurer in his youth remains evident in that benign face, and the sea-green eyes are fathoms deep. There is no questioning her demeanour, for she looks upon her daughters with a love that Anne recognises all too well. A love, it seems, that was denied her in her childhood.

Both curtsey to Elizabeth first, and then to Anne. Elizabeth looks very pleased, and immediately addresses them in the Italian tongue, which startles them both, for they had no idea that she is able to do so. Anne conceals a smile; she could have advised them, of course, that Mistress Champernowne has ensured that the Queen is able to communicate in the foremost languages of Europe. She might not have the turns of phrase particular to the Florentine state, but they are equally able to speak the formal version of their mother tongue, and Anna's shyness is quickly dispelled as she is invited to sit with her sister and the Queen. That they are both older than the Queen by some years seems not to matter to Elizabeth - she seems to have a natural talent at welcoming all to her presence as though she has waited all her life to meet them. It is a talent that Anne envies, somewhat, as she does not possess it in equal measure. Perhaps she inherited it from her aunt, for Mary is equally skilled.

"Signora Benedetta, welcome. Shall we walk in the Privy Gardens awhile? The weather is most delightful, and it seems such a waste to spend it within walls, does it not?" Her tone is artful, as though she is creating a pretext to leave the daughters with Elizabeth and her ladies to see how well they might fit with her retinue.

"Of course, Majesty." Jesu, her voice is a delight - almost musical in its tone, the accent more a delectable seasoning than a discord. No wonder Mr Cromwell was so struck by her. Smiling, the lady curtseys again as Anne rises, and the two depart to the door.

Now that summer is almost upon them, the sunlight is bright and warm, and the carefully tended formal gardens are alive with early blooms that fragrance the air with a multitude of perfumes. Bees travel from flower to flower, gathering the precious nectar that they shall return to their hives, while birds chatter in the small box hedges as they seek food for their squalling broods.

"Forgive me if I am intrusive, Signora." Anne begins, a little tentatively, "If you do not wish to answer my question, I shall not press you."

Rather than demur, or look bemused, Benedetta shakes her head, "I know what it is that you wish to ask, for I saw his face when his eyes fell upon me. I could not have forgotten him - even after so many years."

"As he has not forgotten you."

"He spoke of me to you, Majesty?"

Anne nods, "Once, some years ago - and in confidence. The occurrences of his life in Florence are not known to the rest of the Court. He has not spoken of it again, and nor have I."

"Thank you, Majesty." Benedetta looks relieved, "Do not mistake me - I love my dear husband, for he is a good and kindly man who accepted me as a wife, and educated me. Equally, however, I have retained that first love within my heart - for he was a fine youth who asked nothing more of me than to share my heart."

"As he did with you." Anne admits, "He also took a wife when he returned to England - and retained you within his heart likewise."

"I should like to meet her, perhaps."

"Alas, that is not possible, for she is with God. She was taken by sickness some ten years ago or more. Mr Cromwell has not sought female company again since that day."

"Forgive me - I knew not."

"There is nothing to forgive." Anne says, then stops and turns to the woman at her side, "I shall not ask more - for it is not right that I should know what my Lord Treasurer does not. I have no doubt that you know that all royal Courts are sloughs of gossip and casual innuendo that can besmirch the most innocent of reputations. I shall do what I can to grant you privacy should you wish to confide in him - for I think he would wish to know."

Benedetta's eyes widen, "You would do that for us, Majesty?"

Anne nods, "But I must ask that you do not meet with him unchaperoned; for the sake of you both. Thus I shall be present, as shall one of my most trusted ladies, while a brace of his most trusted colleagues shall be with us. We shall grant you privacy as best we can, and shall take pains to ensure that we shall not overhear your words."

She sighs, "I have lived long enough to appreciate that your precautions are wise, Majesty. I have seen other women of great reputation destroyed wrongly by malicious talk, and thus I accept your conditions - though there is no need for secrecy from my Lord, for he knows of it, though he knows not that the blameless youth that I loved now resides here at your Court."

"He seems a kindly man."

Benedetta's face lightens again, "Oh he is indeed, Majesty. He is kindly and gentle. I have been most blessed in my marriage - for he believed that I was innocent and chaste when others would not, and my life has been most happy."

_As I once thought mine_. Anne thinks to herself at the innocent mention of the words she had once used as her personal motto.

"Then I shall arrange a meeting, Signora." She smiles, "It shall not be this week - for to invite you to my Privy Chamber twice in one week would be remarked upon by the other Ambassadors. That you are here now is not of interest, for all know that his Excellency hopes to place his daughters in the train of the Queen."

"Of course, Majesty." Her fine face is a mystery - as though she is delighted to know that she shall soon be able to speak to a man she thought never to see again, but also is dismayed to do so in fear of where that might lead.

The two turn their talk to other matters and resume their walk, but Anne wonders, as she does so, whether it might have been better to let sleeping dogs lie. Too late now, though - she has opened the door, and must hope that it shall not unleash a maelstrom.

* * *

Standing at the side of the table, Chapuys appears to be giving most careful consideration between a selection of comfits, and a rather fine expanse of decorated marchpane, "And is the usurper interested in either of the two daughters?"

Beside him, Rich has deposited a smear of cottage cheese onto a small wafer, which he then consumes with a look of mild revulsion, "She has given no word yet; though I shall advise you once I am aware of it. God, I despise this vile stuff."

"Then why do you eat it?"

"For my health alone, I assure you. Were I not obliged to consume it, I would hurl it from the nearest window and celebrate its splattering upon the flags of the path below."

"I am told that her Majesty's Embassy is almost ready to speak for her."

"You mean that they have stopped quarrelling between themselves for long enough to make progress." Rich smirks.

"I did not say so." Chapuys's expression is hardly less amused, "Though you are welcome to construe my words as you wish."

"I take it they have utterly abandoned the foolish enterprise of pamphlets?" Rich continues, "Though I think it would amuse them to learn of the expense of the measures employed at the ports to prevent the importation of such cargo."

"Indeed they have - though the funds that his Grace of Norfolk has provided are sufficient to afford to evade such measures, they now concentrate upon appearances. It does not do, after all, to approach a Royal court dressed as a burgher."

"Boleyn shall be pleased." There is a carefully measured hint of spite in Rich's words, "He has never been happy unless covered in jewels."

"A vice inherited by his daughter." Chapuys adds, with equal malice, though his words are not as accurate as once they were. While Anne certainly bedecks herself in glittering jewellery when obliged to make a Queenly display, her ornaments are far less visible in private. Besides, with so much left of Henry's fine collection, it is far easier to have the jewels there re-set than order new pieces. Indeed - Elizabeth's gifts at Christmastide consisted of several fine sets of jewels, all of which had once adorned her Father. Those items, however, that are too large or ostentatious even for a woman who would be telling untruths if she said that she had no love for fine jewels have been sold to help with the ongoing works to reduce Henry's appalling debts.

Rich's smile is rather thin, though Chapuys assumes that his mild expression of disdain is aimed at Anne, rather than himself, "Speaking of the Queen - have we been advised of her views concerning the future of her realm? It would be of little worth for me to lay the ground for her, only to find that she has no interest in reclaiming her crown."

The Ambassador squints quickly left and right, to ensure that they are not overheard, "At this time, no. If she has been approached, then her answer has not yet been received. She is, however, her mother's daughter - and I do not doubt for a moment that her filial loyalty shall grant her the strength to do what must be done to restore her rightful inheritance, and bring England back to the embrace of Rome."

"Amen." Rich answers, "Forgive me, Excellency: I fear that, should I remain beside this table for too much longer, I shall reach for some fancy or other to remove the taste of that foul cheese; I have no desire to be obliged to consume a second mouthful."

Seated at the high table, Anne watches as the Lord Privy Seal retreats from the banquet table and returns to the general throng of courtiers, "What do you think they discussed?" She murmurs to Rochford, seated to her left. Elizabeth is distracted by a conversation with one of her ladies, and thus she feels safe to discuss such matters.

"I cannot say." he answers, though she does not expect him to know, "Though I imagine it shall concern the progress of the Conti daughters in their hopes to enter the Queen's retinue - and I have no doubt that the progress of attempts to push the Queen of Sweden in our direction might have been raised."

In spite of herself, Anne feels a shudder of that old spite rising in her breast, and fights with herself not to give in to it. The girl is gone - there is no longer any means by which she could sensibly quit Sweden and attempt to invade England. She is now a mother, too; and thus doubly held at Gustav's court. No - regardless of the efforts of Brandon and her own father, she cannot see how, or why, Mary would attempt to overthrow a crowned and anointed Queen. Elizabeth has won the love of her subjects through her youth, beauty and much vaunted accomplishments as a student. She remains 'King Harry's Bairn' and 'Little Queen Bess' for the moment - though as she continues to grow, that shall doubtless evolve to abandon the 'bairn' and the 'little'.

"May I join the dance, Mama?" Her daughter's voice startles her out of her reverie, and she turns, smiling fondly, "Of course you may, my dear one." She turns to her brother, "George, would you?"

"Of course, Majesty." Rochford rises to his feet and extends his arm to his niece, "Come, Majesty, might I be granted the first dance?"

Settling back in her chair, Anne watches as her brother guides her daughter into the throng of dancers preparing to begin a lively galliard. She would love to do the same - but even now, after near-on eight years, she feels uncomfortable with the fear of inciting the Courtiers to gossip of the favour she might offer a man through the simple act of sharing a dance. She might well have ignored the general air of dislike that crowded about her when she was Henry's hunted hind, and convinced herself that it was not truly there when she was his wife; but now she is the mother of the Queen, and she will not - _will_ not - permit the merest taint of scandal to touch her child. But…oh…to be free to share the floor again…

She looks up to see that Mr Cromwell is nearby, awaiting her invitation to approach. Her summons is a nod, and he bows before her, "Majesty."

"Have you spoken to your colleague yet?" She does not elaborate - she has no need to.

"Not as of yet, Majesty. He has not been given the opportunity to do so unobserved. I shall seek him out upon the morrow. I have received word from Archbishop Cranmer - he has been required to return to Canterbury briefly, but hopes that he may present a request to you when he is back at Court."

"A Religious request, I take it?" She smiles.

"Indeed so." They both know that Cranmer's enthusiasm for reform is at least twice as much again as both of theirs combined.

"Then I look forward to it with interest." Then she eyes him, "If it is not too much trouble, I should appreciate it if you would accompany me to the dance floor. I have not danced for some considerable time, and I wish to enjoy a pavane."

His eyes widen in mild horror; though more for his lack of practice than being seen to dance with the Regent. He is considerably older than she, and base-born to boot - no one would even pretend for a moment that he had designs upon her - but his days upon the dance floor ended some ten years back, as his career began to rise. He might once have performed in masques at Court - but that was years ago, "Forgive me, Majesty - I would not wish to embarrass you with my ineptitude."

"Come now, Mr Cromwell, in what way do you think it possible that I could not know embarrassment after the years I spent being despised by all about me? I shall take care to ensure that you do not treat upon my feet, or trip over the train of the dancer in front, I promise."

"As you wish, Majesty." He bows and leads her to the floor. Heedless of the stares, for there are certainly plenty of those, Anne smiles at her daughter, now partnered by Sir John Gage, and waits for the music to begin.

* * *

Rochford seats himself at the gaming table, "Do you think the Court has ceased to be astounded by the dance last night?" his expression is amused, but not malicious.

His wife carefully shuffles the cards, "Nan says not; but it has been so many years since the Lord Treasurer stepped amongst dancers that some have never seen him do so. It is no surprise to me that to see him participate so has caused shock and bemusement."

Rich says nothing, though he reddens slightly; he was one of that latter group, and has never seen such a thing as his colleague in the midst of a pavane.

In order to keep matters going as long as possible, the intention again is for a penny stake and a threepence rest; but until Anne joins them, there is little that can be done but light gossiping and the seemingly endless shuffling of cards. Such is the determination to keep matters concealed, that Mary Stafford has taken it upon herself to form a highly visible friendship with Signora Conti, though the two seem to have bonded as it is, and there is no artifice in her behaviour. Thus it is she who shall escort the lady to the Privy Chamber as her personal guest, as she has largely become absorbed into that royal inner circle, and thus none shall remark upon it. Well, not as much as they might have done had Anne issued the invitation.

Anne is not yet present, saying goodnight to her daughter; but Cromwell is at the other end of the chamber, looking out of the window into the darkness beyond. His tension could not be more obvious - for a man so inscrutable such a thing is a rare sight indeed - and he fidgets with a loose thread upon his sleeve unconsciously. How it is that Benedetta is here, he still cannot fathom. She was taken to be immured in the silence of a convent - he saw her being made to enter a litter under the supervision of both her father and the family's priest. They had not noticed him, and thus he escaped danger of reprisals for his own involvement with her, but her anguished pleas for deliverance have fleetingly haunted his dreams ever since.

_Forgive me, Liz. I did not bring her into our union…she lived in my heart, but second to you; I swear it_.

All eyes turn to the door as it opens, but it is only Anne, who pauses to look across the room at the Lord Treasurer with a sympathetic expression, before joining her fellow players at the table, "Mary shall be here shortly; though her ability to play primero is so limited that I have already forbidden her to participate. She can, however, play the virginals well, and thus I am sure we shall enjoy music to accompany our game."

Her tone is brisk, the very impression of a social gathering with no ulterior motive of any kind. That Mary is bringing her new friend is incidental - or so people are being led to believe. The only certainty of the evening is that this shall occur once - and once only. There shall be no more dealings between the Lord Treasurer and the Ambassador's wife.

Standing across the room, Cromwell sighs to himself; he knows equally that, after this evening is done, he must not so much as speak to Signora Conti either in public or in private - her honour depends upon it, and so does his career.

The door to the chamber is opened again, and Matthew steps in, "Majesty, Madame Stafford is without, accompanied by Lady Conti."

"Excellent," Anne smiles at him, "I am pleased that she has brought Lady Conti, she is excellent company. Show them in."

Mary is, as always, wreathed in smiles, for she has ever worn her heart upon her sleeve, though she looks at the gaming table with some discomfort, "Am I to play, Majesty?"

"Heavens no, Sister." George calls across from the table, "We would leave you penniless, as well you know!"

"I require you to play only upon the virginals, Mary," Anne assures her, "Perhaps you would also like to play, later, Signora Conti?"

Benedetta curtseys deeply, "Thank you, your Majesty. I have played the virginals since I was a girl - if it please you, I should be delighted to do so." Her tone is courteous, but it could not be clearer that her thoughts are elsewhere; her eyes keep flitting to her right, where she can see Cromwell standing at the far end of the chamber.

"Go." Anne whispers to her, gently, "Settle your accounts; we shall not listen, I give you my word as a Queen and the daughter of gentlemen."

"Thank you, Majesty." Almost immediately, she steps back a few paces, before turning to cross the room as Anne resumes her place at the table and warns everyone there with a fierce glare to concentrate upon the game.

The candles are few here, shadowing the room deeply. Dressed in black, Cromwell seems almost to disappear within them, but the glimmer of the lights illuminates his face, and the strained expression upon it. "I thought you lost forever."

He speaks to her in her own tongue, for he knew it well, once.

"My dear _Tommaso_ ," she smiles at him, "I thought myself equally lost - for I had turned to God to protect me as an innocent, but instead he had punished me as a sinner. I shall never forget that dreadful day; for, even though I knew that I would never be yours, I held you in my heart."

"You were blameless - and yet still they blamed you." His eyes betray his bitterness.

"Of course they did - for I am a daughter of Eve, and she was the first sinner in the Garden, was she not?" tentatively, her hand rises and rests upon his cheek, "It has ever been thus - and I accepted it, for there was no other choice."

He rests his hand upon hers, "But you are not a nun."

Benedetta turns and crosses to the chairs that have been set for them, "I thought that would be my fate - but I did not appreciate that there are those who see a woman such as I as the victim, not the sinner. The Reverend Mother of the convent of Poor Clares looked upon me with kindness, for she saw - is my family did not - that I was innocent of any sin against my chastity. Both she and the priest agreed to accept me as a postulant, but did not admit me. Instead, they granted me a roof atop my head and sought to find me a good marriage. I remained within those walls for a year, where I was treated as a good daughter of God, and granted learning to occupy me." She pauses, "I think that I was fortunate, for I came to know of other young girls such as I who were indeed admitted as postulants in spite of having no vocation."

"Then you were fortunate indeed." He admits, taking her hand again.

She looks up at him, "That is true; for the husband that they found me was my dear Francesco. He knew all - but loved me nonetheless. I thought it impossible that any man could wed me, for I was tainted by sin."

"No. Not you; never you." Cromwell's eyes are pained, "You were unstained, and you looked upon a meanly dressed youth of no prospects with kindness. It grieved me to see you treated so; nay, it tore me from my faith - for I saw an innocent soul condemned by the very Church that should have protected and defended her."

Her eyes grow a little distant, "I think, while I wept in that litter, I also thought myself to have lost faith in God, and in the Holy Mother too, for why had She not defended me? I knew not that She had other plans, and instructed the Reverend Mother of the Poor Clares to do so upon Her behalf. Thus I prostrated myself before Her in contrition, and knew myself to be comforted."

"And now you are the wife of a great Ambassador, and friend to a Queen." He finishes.

"Rewarded for my forbearance and faith." She smiles at him. She lifts her free hand and sets it upon the hand that has captured her other, "Even so, I did not forget you - for I saw your helpless anguish that you could not save me. But I knew also that I would not see you again - yet you are here. How is that so?"

"For a man of such low birth?" he asks, smiling slightly, "Ah, that was, I think, a mixing of hard work and great good fortune. I returned to England and entered the legal profession and the cloth trade. When I married, I was a man of reputation and wealth, though I had little land to my name and thus none saw me as a gentleman. I entered the Court through the auspices of the late Cardinal Wolsey, and made myself useful to a King who appreciated men of skill and intellect in Government."

"And your wife?"

He sighs, "She died." He is surprised at the pain that the admission causes him, even now.

"I am sorry." Benedetta says, quietly, "Forgive me, for I knew of that - but it seemed important that I ask it. I hope that you know that it was not my intention to pain you."

He shakes his head, "There is no need to be sorry. We lived fourteen years together, and I loved her - and love her still, I think, for no woman has ever captured me since. There is no other." Then he pauses, "There _was_ no other."

"I am married _Tommaso_. There can be no love between us." She reminds him, gently, "Moreover, I love my dear Francesco, and would die rather than give him cause to be offended by me, as you would not wish to give your late wife's soul cause to be saddened by you, for I think that is the reason why you have never taken another wife, is it not?"

He nods, sadly, "Forgive me, Benedetta; I would equally rather die than besmirch your honour. It stayed my hand when I saw you last in Florence, and it would stay my hand now. You have ever lived in my heart - but I know that it is a gilded vision built by a besotted youth who thought himself to be witnessing a martyrdom of his beloved. Our love was chaste, for it was a childish trifle of calf-love. I am grateful to God that I have learned of your true fate, and thus I am content."

"As am I."

He does not kiss her; to do so would be in contradiction of all that they have said, but instead raises her hand to his lips as though she is a great lady to whom he grants obeisance.

"I shall not stay in London, _Tommaso_ ," she continues, "I came in hopes of securing a place for our girls in her Majesty's retinue, as it shall be a great education for them. It seems that they shall succeed in winning such places for themselves, and thus I must return to our estates. Thus I shall depart from here by the end of the month - and shall not return."

Cromwell does not object, but instead smiles, "Then know that you depart from here with my regard and the knowledge that I have prospered, as have you - and thus God did not look upon our foolishness unkindly."

She rises and curtseys to him, before withdrawing to the other end of the room. As she does so, she looks back - and again it seems almost that the shadows have swallowed him up.

He remains apart from the group for the entirety of the evening, so concealed that it seems to those who surround the gaming table that he is not there at all. It is only after all have departed that Anne turns, "Come from your hiding place, Mr Cromwell: you cannot live within those shadows."

Finally he emerges, and she feels a stab of sadness at the expression upon his face - though she cannot be sure whether it is over the departure of the woman to whom he has just spoken or that of a woman to whom he can never speak again.

"It is for the best." She reminds him, gently, "It would serve neither of you to pursue this."

"Yes." He agrees, dully, "It is for the best." His eyes are brimming.

She says nothing, but instead leads him back to the shadowed end of the room and seats herself as he gives into his grief, sinks to the floor, and sobs into her skirts.

Yes. In spite of all, it is for the best.


	39. Contagion

"You have done well to miss this, Richard." Rochford is flicking hastily through a large sheaf of papers that set out the houses that the Queen shall visit as she makes her progress north, "All is done to secure our accommodations, thanks to Mr Paget's assistance, but nonetheless, I feel as though I have forgotten a hundred items or more."

"And you think me able to remember them?" Rich asks, sardonically, "My head is in a hundred places at once."

Rochford smiles to himself, he already knows that he is now not the only member of the inner circle whose wife is expecting a babe in due course - though Lady Rich is, of course, considerably less along than Jane, having discovered her condition barely a day prior to her husband's departure back to Court. Thus he is two weeks later in returning than he had intended.

"What is left to be done?" Rich resumes, following Rochford as they make their way to the Council chamber with the papers.

"Merely to pack the Queen's accoutrements, I think. Southampton has agreed to remain in London to man the battlements upon her Majesty's behalf - and he is most certainly the right choice to do so." They walk in silence for a minute or so, before Rochford resumes at a lower volume, "I am right glad that you are back, Richard. Since that evening of Primero, Mr Cromwell has not been in the best of tempers; and the clerks are feeling the sting of it." He does not elaborate - but then he does not need to. They both know that his mood stems from that quiet conversation in the Privy Chamber that they witnessed, but did not hear, and the departure of the wife of the Florentine Ambassador a week later, as she returned to oversee her husband's estates.

"I fear that you think me far more close in friendship to the Lord Treasurer than I truly am, George." He has been firmly ordered to eschew Rochford's title when they are in private, "There is friendship between us, yes - but it remains a fragile bloom, and I am well aware that I might destroy it if I act in an unguarded manner. It has been a hard won battle for me to be trusted even as much as I am now."

Rochford sighs, "I think we must between us find some way to reach him, for he has been most subdued, and Jane is certain that she sees signs of melancholia in him; she knows of such things, for her mother was afflicted in such fashion."

"I shall see if Chapuys has any devious gossip. That shall certainly interest him."

They take their seats at the Council table, as their colleagues drift in. From his seat, Rich can see that Rochford has not been incorrect in his concerns; the Lord Treasurer is present, but seems uncharacteristically disinterested, almost to the point of indifference. No - something is most certainly not right with him; and that can only bode ill.

All rise as Queen Elizabeth enters the room, her mother to her rear. She sits at the head of the table, in deference to her royal status, though it is Anne who shall lead the deliberations, sitting in a finely upholstered chair to her daughter's right.

"Greetings, gentlemen." Elizabeth says as they seat themselves too, then she turns to her mother, who smiles at her and then turns to her returned councillor.

"Welcome back to Court, Mr Rich. I trust that your good wife is well?" Everyone knows that she has conceived.

"As well as can be expected, Majesty." Rich admits, "I fear that she has always been afflicted by sickness in her first weeks - and it is no different upon this occasion. Our eldest, Mary, has come to keep her company in my absence."

"Please send her my best wishes, Mr Rich." Elizabeth says, "I am most pleased for her."

"I shall do so, Majesty." He smiles at her. Anne says nothing; she knows that such sentiments upon her own part shall not be welcome to a woman who once walked in the train of Queen Katherine.

Elizabeth's enthusiasm is high, as the first order of business is the final completion of arrangements for her Progress. She has not travelled so far north before, and her eagerness has increased day by day as their departure grows closer. There is no disguising the cheerful smile upon Rochford's face as he advises her that all they need to do now is complete the packing up of her garments, plate, bed and furnishings - and then they can go. No matter how well situated the host, the Queen shall not sleep in any bed but hers. Henry did not, and thus his daughter does not.

"If we are not interrupted, then I think I can safely advise that we shall be able to depart the day following the coming sabbath, Majesty." He finishes.

Matters move on then to the matters of tax. The reforms of Parliament have been welcomed by most, but not all; as they have entrenched the operation of Wolsey's Subsidy, whereupon all subjects pay a tax based upon a proportion of their property and earnings. The real work has been establishing a system of tax collection that is fair, in that the wealthy cannot avoid their obligations through bribery or concealing their wealth from the Commissioners. Being newly returned to the table, Rich is bemused at the dull monotone of Cromwell's voice as he describes the new measures that he has devised to ensure that those who are most able to pay are not able to evade their obligations. Such disinterest seems so unlike his colleague that it startles him.

Now is not the time to comment, so he remains silent as Lord Sandys rises, "I have received word from the Lord Mayor, Majesty. It appears that the plague has arrived in London rather earlier than usual; and I am concerned at the numbers that have been afflicted at this time. If it please you, I think that we should remove from Court as quickly as can be achieved, for it is not good to be at Whitehall at such a time."

Anne's expression does not change, but she feels a sharp stab of discomfort in the pit of her stomach: plague - and they are still close to the city…

All of her instincts scream at her to flee - and to do so immediately. She can see her councillors exchanging glances that proclaim much the same sentiment. It may be nothing; it may abate - but what if it does not?

"My Lord, please liaise with the household department to organise an immediate removal to Windsor for those who are to remain at Court while her Majesty is upon progress. I should appreciate it if accommodation is made available for the men of Parliament within the vicinity to ensure that they are able to continue their deliberations."

Elizabeth is frowning slightly, "Is it not better that I stay? If my subjects are suffering, then I should stay to be here for them."

Everyone stares at her, shocked at such a suggestion. It can only be thanks to her youth - Henry had had such a terror of sickness that he had fled from it at its first appearance.

Cromwell shakes his head, as though her suggestion has roused him from his melancholy torpor, "No Majesty - it is better that you depart. Should this fade, you shall have stayed for nothing - but should it spread, you shall be able to give comfort to many, rather than few, as you travel through the countryside."

"If that is so, then we must take care," Anne adds, worriedly, "I cannot forget the agony of those who came to Canterbury, and found nothing but misery and death. It is not possible to know how it happened - but they came in their multitude, and death stalked them in those numbers. Perhaps a large gathering creates a miasma of humours that sicken them."

"Then shall we reduce the size of the retinue, Majesty?" Rochford asks, "If there are few of us, then perhaps we shall not accumulate such humours."

"Not _too_ few, George," she smiles at him, "It is a royal progress, after all. The Lord Treasurer is right - we must continue with our plans. I think it may be wise to disperse those members of the Court who are not essential to the Progress, however. If you could see to that, please?"

"I shall assist him, Majesty." Rich offers, and the pair rise, bow and depart, while the rest of the Councillors gather their papers to do likewise.

"Stay, Mr Cromwell." Anne intervenes as her Lord Treasurer reaches for his own papers, "I have matters that I wish to discuss with you." Her attention diverts to Elizabeth, "Majesty, I shall join you anon."

"Yes, Mama." Regardless of her elevated state, the Queen rises, bobs a small curtsey to her mother, and returns to her Privy Chamber.

He says nothing, at first. Then sighs, "Forgive me, Majesty. My mind is distracted."

"That, I know." She smiles at him, kindly, "But I must speak to you of other matters - for Lord Sandys's report concerns me. Do you think it wise for us to do what we have done? I cannot risk Elizabeth's health when her years are so tender. England cannot afford to lose her, for she has no heir."

Cromwell remains silent, musing over the problem, "At this time, it is impossible to say, Majesty. Plague has ever emerged in the warmer months, only to recede in time. God has smiled upon us with each emergence, and it has abated before too long - but that is not to say that it shall do so this time. Equally, it is not to say that it shall not."

"If Lord Sandys is correct, however, then it has already exceeded that which we have come to expect, and I am concerned that it shall be a bad year. If that is so, then my fear is that the people shall toil under its miseries, while we flee to safety and leave them to suffer."

He smiles, a little sadly, "Is it not ever thus, Majesty? The wealthy flee, while the poor remain. Your late Lord did much the same when the sweat overcame England. He sent you from court in hopes of saving your life, while he fled London to his palaces in the countryside, and moved frequently between them - all the while supping all manner of medicaments and physics in hope of staying alive."

"That is so - though he did not succeed in protecting me from that sickness - but I was fortunate, for God protected me, and I recovered." Anne smiles, "In so many things, he was brave as a lion; but he feared sickness more than any other thing upon the earth."

"I think it best that we commence the progress as intended, Majesty. We shall remain within the vicinity of London for a brace of weeks, if not a little longer. Thus we can remain observant. If it becomes clear that this shall be - as you describe it - a 'bad year', then we can revise our intentions accordingly."

She nods, then sighs, "Forgive me, Mr Cromwell; I have not failed to notice your distraction - but I need you here. I need you now. If this becomes a bad year, then we must act quickly, and without hesitation."

Her eyes are full of sympathy for his sadness, and he makes himself smile at her, "I shall do my utmost."

* * *

"So," Rochford says, sitting down rather heavily, "how many Courtiers is it now?"

"What - Courtiers that shall never forgive us for asking them not to come on the progress?" Rich asks, with surprising cheer, "Oh, I think about twenty. At least the other twelve took some pains to conceal their irked disappointment."

Rochford smirks, "They shall live - already I hear that some are making arrangements for their departures to country estates. The threat of plague, even fleeting, is sufficient to suggest to them that it might be best to remove themselves from London even if they cannot do so in the company of the Queen."

Rich's smile slips slightly, "Do you think we shall see it spread beyond the city this year?"

Rochford's expression becomes nervous, "I hope not - but all that we can do is pray for it to abate, and hope that God shall hear us."

The sound of footsteps approaching captures their attention, and they look up to find that they have been so engrossed in their work that they have lost track of time. The chambers are quiet now, the clerks finished for the day, and the candles are all lit. Only one other man is present now, as Cromwell approaches them, a bottle and three cups in hand, "Is it done?"

"It is." Rochford confirms, expansively, "And we have only been subjected to demands for divine wrath to descend upon us six times."

"Only six?" Cromwell smiles, "That is quite remarkable. I think I have accumulated at least fifty such curses in my time at Court - you are far in my wake, I fear, my Lord."

"George - please, we are in private."

Cromwell's eyebrows migrate towards his hairline at such an invitation. Rochford is, after all, a noble, not a commoner. Rich might feel comfortable with such informality, but he is a Knight.

"If I may refer to you as Thomas?" Rochford continues, in almost a wheedling tone, though there is a humorous twinkle in his eye.

"It seems appropriate." Cromwell concedes, "For I come in hopes of offering a degree of contrition for my foolish behaviour of the last few weeks."

Rich looks bemused, for he has not been at court, but Rochford shakes his head, "It is of no moment, Thomas. We are all beholden to incidents from our past. I would be naught but a hypocrite if I berated you for your actions - for did I not betray my own sister in hopes of advancement for myself?"

Cromwell shakes his head, and sits, "It is more than that - for my foolishness coloured more than my feelings for a woman - it caused me to abandon my faith, and to turn my face from Rome. While I have accepted and given myself to the reformed faith, my anger at Rome was aimed at more than the mere corruption of the prelates - but at its cruelty towards a single individual, and that is not a sound foundation upon which to base a critical opinion."

"It is a human one, however." Rich reminds him, "God knows that I have allowed my heart and…other parts…to dictate my actions on many occasions. Not, perhaps in such fashion as to amend my view of God - but nonetheless…" his voice trails off, and he reddens slightly. One would have to have been blind to have failed to notice his infidelities over the years.

"And I am no better." Rochford adds.

Cromwell sighs, and uncorks the bottle, pouring out three cups of rich, dark claret, "Perhaps I give off the air of the ascetic, Gentlemen - but I assure you that I am not. I have more than sufficient faults of my own for which God shall call me to account when my time comes; but I think it worth telling the truth to you - for I suspect my misery has been attributed incorrectly."

"In what way?" Rochford asks.

"I might have given the impression that I was enamoured of Signora Conti when she came to us that evening - but my heart was sore not for what we lost as children - but what was taken from me as a man. I looked to her for that moment as someone who could salve another pain entirely - and I think she knew that to be so. It was not her departure that tore at my heart, but the loss of my dear wife; for with her I knew much happiness, and that was taken from me cruelly - and brutally swiftly, for she was gone in barely a night - and then to lose my two dear girls…"

"That is cruel indeed." Rich sympathises, for he, too, has lost children; for a moment his expression seems equally sad - though he hastily rearranges his features to conceal it. Even now, he does not feel safe to show weakness in this place.

"Perhaps - but it is done, and cannot be undone. I may have lost my wife and daughters, but my son lives, and prospers; and that is a great consolation to me. All that we can do is go on. We have a young queen to protect and teach, and thus I offer you my contrition for my foolishness, for I cannot serve her Majesty if I am over-involved in regrets that cannot be mended." Cromwell takes a deep sigh, and raises his cup, "To her Majesty the Queen. Long may she reign."

Without hesitation or confusion, Rich and Rochford do likewise, "Long may she reign."

* * *

The meal set before the hungry courtiers is magnificent in both quality and quantity, as their host is keen to impress. Sir James Fenton is only recently knighted, largely in response to his offer of accommodation for the Court, but he is one of the growing population of men who have won wealth through hard work and trade, and his fine manor is built upon the former site of a small religious house that seemed to do no more when it existed than take up space. To Anne, it seems appropriate that their first port of call is owned by someone with a family history akin to her own lineage.

There is no doubt that Sir James is very wealthy indeed, thanks to his successes in the cloth trade; but he seems to lack pretension, and has welcomed them honestly and warmly. The reduced size of Elizabeth's entourage has even ensured that no one shall be housed under canvas - a regular hazard for those who travelled in Henry's retinue - as a number of the former abbey buildings have been converted into accommodation for the visit. All in all, the prospects for the visits seem set most fair.

Seated at the centre of the high table, Elizabeth is hiding her tiredness excellently, though her yawns are becoming harder and harder to conceal. It is no surprise to Anne, as her daughter has previously always travelled in her litter; today is the first day that she has spent entirely in the saddle. Madame Astley, newly married, is watching her discreetly, while Jane Radcliffe and Anna Conti, who has entered the Queen's service, stand behind her to offer her comfits and wine if need be.

Now that the feast has been voided, the strains of a pavane trickle down from the musicians' gallery. It is not of the quality that would be heard at court - for they are not Court musicians - but they are competent, and it is not long before the assembled courtiers are engaged in the dance.

Sir James's wife, Susannah, is a shy woman with a slight stutter who has been rendered quite mute by her illustrious guests. She has, however, overseen the work of the kitchens with great skill, and Margery is in the midst of a campaign to befriend their hostess in order to draw her out of her shell.

George and Jane are amongst the dancers, closer than ever, while Sussex is in conversation with Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich alongside the banquet table. She conceals an amused smile at Rich's disgust as he consumes another mouthful of that cream cheese that he so despises. It is essential, of course: all finish their meals with it to ensure that their stomachs are closed, but that does not mean that he is obliged to enjoy it.

It all seems so peaceful - so tranquil; they have travelled through sunlit countryside, people working in the fields setting aside their implements to cheer the Queen's column as it passes through. The grime, heat and reek of London has been left far behind, her daughter now safe in the Hertfordshire countryside for two weeks, before they continue north and travel further away from any risk of sickness.

The thought of their flight catches at her conscience, and she looks up to catch Mr Cromwell's eye. Immediately, he excuses himself and approaches, "Majesty?"

"Is there news from London?"

He does not need to ask what news, "Not at present, Majesty. I have asked for messengers to be sent should there be any change to the situation."

"I think, upon the morrow, we must decide what we shall do should matters worsen." She muses, "It is better to be prepared and find it was not necessary, than to find it necessary and not be prepared."

He nods, "That is a wise course, Majesty. It may be that people shall flee the sickness, and thus we must ensure that there are places to which they can go. I have dispersed my household to properties outside the city, and ensured that Gregory has removed to one of his properties in Rutland, so I am free from concern for their immediate welfare, and thus able to devote myself to your service at this time. Equally, I have asked Southampton to prepare a militia to maintain order should matters deteriorate."

"Deteriorate?" Anne asks, nervously.

"I have seen it in past years, Majesty." He sighs, "I cannot accept that such sickness is an act of malice - but without any understanding of how it is that the sickness occurs, people are fearful. I have seen the most egregious acts of cruelty to innocents who are blamed for such maladies as this."

"Poisoning the wells, you mean." She is hardly unaware of such fears - she has lived through sickness before.

He nods, "I cannot accept that to be so. It seems too convenient, does it not?"

"Indeed so - but what can we do? The sickness comes, then it departs - like a thief in the night. None know of its arrival until the first falls sick, and its departure can only be certain after a long time without victims. How is it that it has come here? It was not here in the spring."

"I cannot answer that."

"I know." She sighs, "It is not a question that I expect you to answer." Her eyes scan the throng, dancing, chattering, laughing, eating…while in the poor communities of London, people grow sick, "Should matters grow worse - you must tell me."

"I shall, Majesty; I give you my word. Equally, I have ensured that, should that happen, messengers shall be sent to us daily to keep us apprised." She nods, gratefully, as he bows and steps back two paces before turning to return to his colleagues. Nearby, Elizabeth looks keen to join the dance, but her yawns suggest that it is unlikely that she shall do so.

"Go to bed, my dear daughter." She smiles, "There shall be dancing upon the morrow - and I am sure that Sir James has organised a hunt for the Court in the park if the weather is fair."

"Thank you, Mama." Elizabeth is old enough now to accept when she is too tired to remain present, and does not object. Instead, she waits for the pavane to end, before rising; a movement that brings everyone to a halt to bow to her. Even now, she is unused to such deference, and she blushes charmingly at the gesture before making her way around the high table, Mistress Astley at her side, Jane and Anna to her rear, and departs the hall.

The musicians move on into a galliard, and the hall is a mass of swirling skirts and gowns as the pace of the dance increases. Such activity is rather more than is possible for Jane Rochford, concerned for the babe within her, and she has returned to sit alongside Queen Anne, while her husband crosses to join Cromwell and Rich, the three of them now rather looked upon as a political triumvirate amongst the Court.

"No news from London?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "None. I am not sure whether to consider it a good or bad thing; for if this sickness does spread beyond London, then we shall need to take steps to ensure the safety of the Queen, and also the welfare of her Subjects."

"That shall not be easy." Rich sighs, "Without knowing how it is that the sickness travels, how can we protect any against it? All we can know for sure is that people shall flee from it should it not abate."

"I have done what I can to prepare for that, should it happen." Cromwell admits, "The sickness in Canterbury was contained, for none were permitted to leave the cathedral precincts - but it is not possible to enclose all of London: too many of the gates are in a poor state of repair, while many of the walls have become ruinous."

"Besides," Rochford adds, "those enclosed would fight tooth and nail to escape. I know that I would do so if I were so confined. Now that my Jane is with child, I would fight all the harder."

"We shall discuss what we must do should the worst happen upon the morrow, Gentlemen." Cromwell advises, "Her Majesty the Regent expects to meet with us."

"And what shall we do in the intervening time?" Rich asks.

"Pray that it does not."

* * *

The sounds of horses in great numbers filters up towards the large chamber that has been set aside for the Councillors who are present. Disappointing as it is to not go out upon the hunt, there has been news from London overnight, and it is far from good.

Cromwell's expression is grim as he rises to his feet, "Forgive me, Majesty; it appears that the outbreak has indeed begun to spread; and already people are looking to flee from London. Those who have homes outside the city have departed to them for the Summer, and thus are not affected - so it is those of little means who are now seeking to escape."

"And those of no means at all?" Anne asks, quietly.

"They remain - and they die." He admits, "This sickness is virulent - and all signs suggest that it is indeed plague. Where the sickness has taken hold, all within the household are obliged to remain, and their houses are closed up. A few doctors have not fled, but they are helpless against it - of those who sicken, only a small number survive."

"They are truly sure that it is the plague?" Rochford asks, concerned.

Cromwell nods, "The symptoms are as recorded from previous outbreaks, my Lord."

"Then I am glad that we removed the Court to Windsor, Mr Cromwell." Anne sighs, "At least those of the Council who remained are safe within the walls. I suggest that those who do not serve upon the Council should remove themselves to their estates as soon as they may. I would ask that the rest of the Council attend us, as was originally intended - though I should appreciate it if Sir John Russell remains alongside my Lord of Southampton - for they are the other officers of State. They shall hold the centre in London, while we shall remain here and await the rest of the Council."

"They are welcome to lodge here, Majesty." Fenton, as their host, is also present.

Anne smiles at him, "Thank you Sir James. I think that her Majesty should continue on progress for the time being - it is better that she travel away from the danger - but also that she move amongst the people as she does so. I do not wish for her to remain within proximity of London should this matter grow worse."

Sussex is nodding his agreement, "I think that wise, Majesty. I shall, of course, remain here, as - I have no doubt - shall my colleagues." He does not need to look up to know that Rochford, Rich and Cromwell are equally in agreement, though Rochford looks nervous for his wife, while Rich looks frightened.

"Her Majesty, and all of her ladies, shall continue upon the progress." Anne agrees, "You shall also go, George. I would prefer it if you remained with your wife at this time."

Immediately, he opens his mouth to protest, "Sister, do not ask me to abandon you in this time of need…"

"Your babe, and your wife, require you more than I. Do not argue with me." Her expression is set, while his turns rather stubborn. For a moment all present wonder if he intends to protest further, but instead he sighs and submits, "Yes, your Majesty."

"You are my daughter's uncle, George. I want her to have at least one member of her family with her at this time. I cannot go - so I ask you to do so in my stead."

"And if the sickness reaches here?"

"If it does, then there shall still be a Queen in England, and she shall be safe with those who shall protect her."

He bows, "I shall see to preparations to move on with a reduced column, Majesty - am I correct in assuming that we shall not depart earlier than intended?"

She nods, "I do not want to alarm Elizabeth unduly. It may yet be that the sickness shall abate."

"I think it wise that we inform her, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "She is reaching an age where silence shall not be appreciated. Young though she is, she has the sharp wits of both of her parents; and is thus burdened with wisdom beyond her years."

For a moment, it appears that she shall protest, but then she sighs, "I fear that you are right, Mr Cromwell. It seems that we cannot continue to pretend that she can remain both a Queen, and an innocent. I had hoped to protect her for just a little longer."

"I think that we shared that hope, Majesty." Sussex commiserates, "But we made a commitment, did we not, to prepare her to rule as a great Queen. Thus we must treat her with honesty and frankness, in spite of her tender years. To do otherwise would be to grant her a great disservice."

Anne looks across at Rich, who has said nothing. It could not be more obvious to her that he is frightened - of the sickness, of what it might do to him and what it might do to his family, far away in Essex. But there is something else there, too; alongside the fear - as though he is disgusted with himself for being so afraid. Rather than comment, and draw attention to his silent conflict, she smiles at him, "We shall face this together - Regent and Council. If England must face a time of trial, then we shall stand united against it, and trust in God to aid us."

While he still says not a word, he finds it in himself to return that smile, albeit rather weakly, as she continues, "I have the men that I trust the most at my side, and my child is safe - naught shall stand in our way, shall it?"

Cromwell smiles at her as she settles back in her chair and regards them all. Brave words - easily spoken. Perhaps it is hubris, but Anne still wears the foolish mantle of England's 'mother of the realm', and to turn tail and flee shall aid no one. Elizabeth shall continue her journey north, ahead of the sickness, while those who serve her shall remain to face the danger, and keep England together should the worst of darkness truly descend.

* * *

Elizabeth's expression is one of great anguish, "I will not go, Mama! I will not leave you here - I am the Queen, it is for me to face this trial!"

All around her exchange glances that are admiring, but also concerned. The news from London grows worse each day, as more and more houses are shut up to contain the plague that has struck the families within them. Worse, there are reports now that the plague has emerged in other parts of England, fanning out from the capital in all directions. It can only be thanks to those who have fled, though how they are carrying the sickness with them, none can tell.

Without hesitation, Anne embraces her daughter, "You must, my dearest. You must. You are the hope of this Kingdom - the sun rising. If we are to walk into the valley of the shadow of death, we must fear no evil - and I can do so if I know that you are safe. It is my task, as your Regent, to lead England through whatever flames are set to burn us; for, should I falter in doing so, then you shall still live. Your uncle shall travel with you, as shall Lady Rochford, and all of your ladies. I shall remain here with the Council, and we shall do all that we can to face this time of pain."

"I am the Queen!" she protests again, "It is my _order_ that I remain - I demand it!" All see it - that flash of temper that comes from both of her parents.

"You are my child." Anne counters, "And I am granted the powers of a Regent. Until you are of age, I rule England. Thus I do not accept your order. I know that you wish to face this trial as England's Queen - and, God knows, you shall be required to do so again and again when you are of age and the realm is yours to rule. But not this time. England needs you to live, Elizabeth; and thus, if one of us is called to God's side before this has ended, I am determined that it shall be me, not you. It is my task as England's Regent - but most of all, it is my task as your mother. I have faced sickness before, and lived. I shall do so again."

Now Elizabeth's lower lip is trembling as she fights to contain her emotions, "I beg you, Mama - do not ask me to go."

"It is not my wish to do so, my dearest." Anne tightens her embrace, "But we are Queens both - and must do what is right for England. Not what we wish to. Perhaps once it was possible to rule by whim and desire, but those days are gone; and we are not Kings who are free to act as we will, regardless of consequence."

Slowly, and with a visible effort, Elizabeth regains control, and straightens; stepping back from her mother, "Yes Mama."

Resting her hand upon her daughter's cheek, Anne smiles at her, "In this moment, you are truly a Queen. Know that I am proud of you - and love you deeply. Go, my dearest, dearest girl - for you must live to rule England. I swear to you that I shall do all that I can to bring your realm through the fire, and I trust in God that we shall see one another again in York. Pray for us."

"I shall do so." In spite of her calm demeanour, it is clear to all that Elizabeth's resolve is about to break, but she holds her composure, curtseys, and withdraws. It is certain, once she is upon the other side of that large door to their Privy Chamber, that she shall allow the tears to come.

"Keep her safe, George." Anne's voice is equally strained, "Keep her alive. Not merely for England - but also for me."

Without a word, Rochford crosses to her and gently wraps his arms about her as she gives way to her emotions, and sobs into his shoulder. Looking up, he exchanges a glance with those who shall remain. There is no certainty of safety in flight - but it is better than to stay; and he wonders which of those faces he shall see again should God grant their Queens a reunion in York.

"We shall depart upon the morrow, Majesty." He assures her, "I give you my word that I shall do all in my power to protect the Queen. God willing, we shall be together again in York when all is done."

Stepping back, he bows deeply and turns to depart.

Her eyes pained, but her expression set, Anne turns back to her three most prominent councillors - the only ones left at her side, "Make ready Gentlemen. England has need of us. Let us not disappoint her."


	40. Into the Dark

The noise in the courtyard is immense - as it would have been had matters been different, for the Court was scheduled to depart today. The baggage carts have been loaded with all the accoutrements that were brought from Whitehall, while Elizabeth herself has opted to commence the journey to their next accommodation upon horseback. Her ladies are busy with the last arrangements before departure, while the Queen remains in her mother's privy chamber for as long as she can.

She says nothing, but it could not be more evident to her mother that she is frightened to leave. They have not been apart for such a time since Anne left for Canterbury, and the risk of sickness now is far greater, and more dreaded. In spite of her previous protests, Elizabeth has consented to obey her mother - but nonetheless the requirement to depart is now upon her, and she grasps what little time she has left before she leaves.

"Pray for me, my dearest." Anne smiles at her, holding her close, "With God's aid, we shall win through, and I shall come to York to escort you home."

"Yes, Mama. I promise that I shall."

Rochford stands nearby, Mary at his side, "We have arranged for her to be housed at Middleham castle - for it remains in the hands of the Crown following its surrender to her Majesty's grandfather. Works are under way to make it comfortable; for while it is habitable, it is in some disrepair."

Anne nods, relieved. While it is not perhaps the grandest of the royal possessions, it has the virtue of being isolated in the countryside, more than forty miles north of York, and that in itself is the best protection that one can hope for. The time that shall be taken to reach it should be more than sufficient to ensure the comfort of the Queen upon her arrival.

"I am looking to you both to protect her." Her own eyes are tearful now, "Keep her safe - not merely for England, but for me."

There would have been a time when Rochford would have laughed at her, or dismissed her concerns with some scorn; but those days are long past, "I give you my word as a Gentleman, and your brother. I shall give my all to do so - even if it be at the cost of my own life."

His words are solemn, and heartfelt. Rising from her daughter's side, Anne huddles into his embrace. Elizabeth is not the only Queen who is afraid for the life of the other, "No my brother - do not so; for I could not wish for your dear wife to be so bereft."

Now he smiles, "No, Majesty - I am a brave man in many aspects, but not in face of the plague. We shall move as swiftly as we may to keep from it."

And there is no more time. Her eyes pained, but her face calm, Anne turns to Elizabeth, "Go safely, my precious girl. The weeks to come shall be hard - but trust in God for his guidance and comfort. I give you my word that I shall not put myself in unnecessary danger."

Her daughter is trembling with unshed tears, but that mantle of royalty has settled itself upon her, and already she has learned to set her feelings aside in favour of her obligations as a queen. Forcibly containing her emotion, she stands and curtseys to her mother, "God's protection be upon you, your Majesty. I shall do my duty as a daughter and queen, and obey your command."

Rising, Anne returns the curtsey, "And also upon you, your Majesty. As you do your duty, so shall I do mine. I shall stand with your Councillors and ensure that whatever trials are to come shall not bring England to destruction. It may yet be that the sickness shall abate - and, if so, I shall depart from here to join you."

She watches, her eyes agonised, as Elizabeth turns, takes Rochford's arm, and departs from the chamber with a Queenly dignity that belies her years, "Madge, call in Mr Cromwell please. There is much that must be arranged."

Mary reaches out and rests a hand upon her arm, "I promise you, we shall take care of her - for she is our niece as much as our Queen."

"Thank you, Mary. I am so glad that you are here. I am sorry for all that I have said against you - for banishing you from my presence when you did naught but follow your heart."

"It is behind us, Anne. I shall carry your love for her with me, and she shall know always that you love her." Curtseying again, Mary withdraws, and she is alone.

Cromwell's expression is bemused as he enters the chamber, "Do you not wish to see her Majesty off? The column is shortly to depart."

Anne shakes her head, turning aside and biting her lip as the tears build to more than she can bear.

"Majesty?" Concerned, he steps forth, only to stare at her in shock as she falls into him, sobbing. Hesitantly, fearful of any conjecture should they be seen, he lifts his arms and embraces her, allowing her to weep into his shoulder. Even though there are few nearby who would consider anything untoward in the scene they present, the fear of scandal is so ingrained that he cannot let it go even now.

No - he is a fool. She has fled to him not as to a lover, but as to a father. Her own is exiled in Flanders, and plots against her, and now she looks to the only other man that she feels safe to trust the midst of that paternal void, "Come now, Majesty - be seated. Shall I call one of your ladies? Perhaps a glass of _eau de vie_?" He fumbles into his scrip for a kerchief, grateful that it is clean and unused.

Eventually, the tears dry - as tears always do - and she mops at her flushed face with the kerchief, "Forgive me, Mr Cromwell. I was not prepared for…" she struggles to articulate the cause of her distress.

"It is hard, Majesty." He admits, quietly, "Do not feel shame for your behaviour - she is your daughter and must flee the greatest danger England has seen since the loss of your late Liege Lord. Greater even than Mary's foolishness, or the people who sought to protect Becket. It seems that we are now to be tested - and it is no sin to be fearful."

" _You_ are not fearful." She hiccups.

"I am merely a capable actor, Majesty. To live as I have done requires much skill at artifice."

Slowly, she regains her composure, and rises from his side, "That is enough. I have permitted myself a time of foolishness - now I must do as my daughter has done, and set such womanish behaviour aside. I am an anointed Queen, and that must guide my actions from this moment."

Rising to his feet, he turns to face her, and bows deeply, "Then let us get down to business."

* * *

There are but four around the table - Queen, Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer and Lord Privy Seal. Fenton is nearby, awaiting instructions upon what is to be done, or to offer information upon the nature of his estate.

"I think it best that we prepare for the worst, but hope for the best." Sussex muses, looking over the latest missive to have arrived from London, "It is clear that we are to face a bad time - for the plague shows signs only of worsening, and it continues to travel northwards. There is also a tract which proclaims that the contagion is spread by a badness of the air, so I think we are as well placed as we can be, for there is naught but clean air here."

Cromwell nods, "Do you have the tract? I did not know that the means by which the sickness spreads had been identified."

Sussex nods, and passes over a rather battered pamphlet. Sitting beside him, Rich looks rather less nervous at the prospect of being protected from the sickness by their rural location.

"Nonetheless, I think it wise that we take precautions." Anne continues, "Sir James - is there a site upon your estate where we might contain any such bad air that is brought to us through the passage of those who flee? A house, perhaps, that is distant from the manor?"

"Yes Majesty." Fenton nods, "There is a disused dower house a mile from here - it is secluded, and the prevailing wind blows from this house towards it. Thus it should protect us from such bad air should it reach us. If it please you, I shall see to its preparation. Your honour guard shall remain housed in the converted Abbey barns, while we shall occupy the main house."

She nods, "Thank you."

Once he has departed, she turns back to her advisers "Is it likely that our neighbours across the channel might see this as an opportunity to strike against us?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I suspect that the fear of contagion shall stay their hands. Instead they shall watch from afar and proclaim it to be God's judgement against us. Only once the sickness has passed shall they consider the prospect."

"Then we shall take steps to ensure that we are not weakened. What of Parliament?"

"A few of the members remain at Windsor, but most have taken flight to their shires as the sickness has advanced." Rich advises, "I think it is safe to say that Parliament is dissolved for this session."

"Then we shall manage without them - as my late Lord was wont to do. What of the Council?"

"The Lord President and Lord Admiral remain at Windsor as instructed, Majesty." Cromwell answers, "Sir John and Sir William have sent word that they shall join us as soon as can be arranged, while Sir Anthony has remained with the Queen's train to manage the horses - but has indicated that he shall return to us should he be summoned. Lord Sandys is - he advises - already _en route_ , while no word has been received from Sir John Baker or from Audley, which suggests to me that they shall not come. Mr Cranmer asks to remain in London, for he has no wish to flee while expecting his fellow clerics to stay."

"Though I suspect much of his bravery is bolstered by the distance of his Palace from the stricken rookeries of Eastcheap." Sussex adds, dryly.

"Then we have done all that we can for the time being." Anne sighs, "Not that it seems to be much - have any further preventative measures been identified?"

Silence. But then, she expected that.

They turn at the sound of a knock upon the door, and Margery enters, "Majesty, Lady Fenton has asked me to advise that dinner shall be served in a quarter of the hour."

The small gathering exchange nervous glances. They have set in place what few preparations they can. All else that they can do now is hope, and pray that matters shall improve.

* * *

It is unpleasant to be cooped up in a garret again - but with so many refugees, there are few other places left to rent - certainly there are no houses of substance between Ieper and Poperinghe that are open to those who have fled Brugge as the plague has taken an ever tighter grip.

Boleyn scowls as he struggles with the heavy strongbox that contains the funds they have accumulated. It had been held securely by the Banker he engaged, but the arrival of plague, and its stronger spread than in previous years ensured that most turned upon their Jewish neighbours, and he was obliged to fight to recoup the monies he had deposited as many shut up their houses and fled. The last he knew, a mob had accused the inoffensive man of poisoning wells, and strung him up from a nearby tree. Perhaps he should feel regret at the cruel murder of an innocent, but his primary concern is his money - and at least he has recovered that.

With the cloth halls closed, their first means of income has faltered - and their flight has ensured that additional funds from Norfolk's coffers shall be unlikely to follow them.

A large number of English traders have also fled to Poperinghe, alongside a number of merchants from Brugge and Gent, so a degree of trade is being carried out - but the real concern now is news. News of the contagion, news of how far it has spread, news of whether it is coming towards them.

Nearby, Brandon is sitting at the grubby dormer, staring out of it with a bizarrely dead expression. Quite why he does so is a mystery that Boleyn cannot - and has no wish to - fathom. It is probably another of his fits of brooding over his lost ascendancy, and the requirement to be a common man. Continuing to scowl, he returns his attention to the strongbox and lugs it across to a small cupboard set into the wall, where he locks it safely away.

At the window, Brandon sighs to himself, despondently. Regardless of Boleyn's grumpiness, his feelings are inspired not by that which he no longer has, but instead by the knowledge that they are no further forward than they had been when first they were obliged to share a roof in Brugge. Worse, the few friends still prepared to risk association with him have advised that England is stable, peaceful and is beginning to prosper as never before. Consequently, it is of no interest to Englishmen that their Queen is a Godless heretic. Not even the exhortation of the Holy Father seems to have stirred them to act.

Mary's only hope of winning England shall be at the head of an army to oust the usurper and her child - but a contented realm might well see not salvation - but invasion. Regardless of her determination to reclaim her throne, Brandon knows Mary shall never agree to do so if the cost is the blood of her Subjects. Thus he cannot see a way to keep the promise that he made to her, and that failure bites at his conscience very deeply.

Matters are not aided by his enforced ignorance of the Queen's wishes. She is a mother now - would she even wish to abandon her son and husband in order to reclaim England for herself? There might well be two boys now in the succession, but there is always a wish to bear more, and she may well consider it her duty to provide them. God's wounds - it rankles not to know!

He is roused from his musings by the sound of a knock upon the door of their garret, which Boleyn opens to reveal one of his acquaintances from the Cloth Hall, "What is it - is there plague here?"

The man shakes his head, "Not that I know of, Thomas - but I have heard from England. It seems that Flanders is not alone in this time of trial, for a group of merchants have recently arrived. They fled from Hastings upon the first ship they could find, for there is also plague in England, and it is worse even than here."

"Worse?" Boleyn's eyes widen, "It has spread beyond London?"

"Indeed so - when I took ship, I heard that it had reached Hertford, Chelmsford and Reading - sending people fleeing ahead of it. There was even word that it had appeared in Rye, and thus I felt it wise to remove myself from the danger."

"And run into it here." Boleyn snorts.

"There is no sign of it west of Brugge." The man shrugs, "Should that change, I shall move again." From his garments, it is clear that he can afford to do so. "Before I do, however, I was asked to give you this." He reaches into a satchel at his side and retrieves a packet, "Sent from Arundel."

Even Brandon turns at that, and he watches as Boleyn takes the packet, "I shall not stay." The stranger advises, "I am to meet with my Factor this evening. Thus I shall depart."

Nodding, distracted, Boleyn nods, and almost shuts the door in the man's face.

"Well?" Brandon asks, as his unwanted colleague breaks the seal and reads the letter within.

"More funds from the Duke. We are to visit a cloth carder in Ieper before the end of this month in order to obtain them."

"And what of this outbreak of plague?"

"Impossible to say - but if it is as bad as suggested, it may be that England shall find herself without a Queen, or a Regent; and thus there shall be but one heir." Boleyn sounds horribly clinical about the possibility that his daughter and granddaughter might die. It seems that he has entirely washed his hands of the pair of them. In spite of the possibility that Mary might well benefit from such an outcome, Brandon struggles to hide his disgust.

Looking up, Boleyn notices his expression, "You think me reprehensible - but I do not forgive betrayal. You have not experienced the failure of filial duty in your offspring; and, until you do, you cannot know what it is to be turned upon by your own progeny. My daughter is a daughter no longer. Not in the moment that she insulted me by removing my privileges. Had I not reached the heights I achieved, then she would not have worn a Crown. Her ingratitude is unforgivable."

And instead, he looks to the child of the woman that his abandoned daughter displaced. Brandon opts not to speak, for fear that he might say something that he shall regret. Much as he despises Boleyn, they both know that they must stand together. Divided, they shall fall - and Mary shall never gain her throne.

Or shall she? It may yet be that the plague shall achieve that which they seek - for if Elizabeth dies, and she has no issue, then who shall remain of Henry's blood to claim the crown?

Perhaps nature shall solve the problem - and then they can greet their new Queen, and lead her to her Kingdom.

* * *

The afternoon sun is warm, and the herber is a pleasantly fragrant spot in which to sit, surrounded by the aromas of rosemary, lavender and thyme, while bees hum their way amongst the borage and lovage flowers in blissful ignorance of the hovering calamity that threatens the realm in which they work so diligently.

It is strange to be alone; for Anne has others in her presence at all times - even when she sleeps, for one of her ladies rests upon a truckle at the foot of her bed. Now, however, she has demanded solitude, and all have retreated in obedience to her request.

She has not been apart from her daughter now for some years, except for the enforced departure to Canterbury. Such closeness to one's child is a rare gift for a noblewoman, and certainly for a Queen, but she has treasured it, and to be without it is painful to bear.

The news from London remains grim, and there is word that other cities on the continent are equally afflicted, with the wealthy fleeing to their country estates to escape the bad air, while the poor remain - and suffer for it. She shudders at the thought - trapped in a house with a deadly sickness whose source cannot be determined; what must that be like? It seems unimaginable.

She hears the crunching of footsteps upon gravel and sits very still, hoping that they shall retreat - but it is merely a garden-boy, who carries on his way without knowing of her presence. Relieved, she relaxes again.

Lord Sandys arrived this afternoon, while they have received word that Sir John Gage and Sir William Petre have both departed from their houses and shall be here within the week. Baker and Audley remain conspicuous by their absence, and she has already struck them from her list of councillors - a veto that shall stay in effect once this storm has abated. Such poltroonery forever barring them from the palaces of the queen.

For a while, her thoughts touch upon her father: far away in Flanders, which - she is told - is facing the same fire as England. Has he thought of her at any time since he left court? Does he still despise her and look to her late rival's child in order to reclaim that which he believes himself to have been denied? She knows from long experience that her father has never been one to let even an imagined slight by - and there is no escaping the truth that he views her actions as the greatest slight of all.

More crunching upon gravel; her head comes up, but she tenses again in hopes that the intruder shall again pass by.

"You are well hidden from where I stand, Majesty - but not from my chambers upon the first floor, I fear."

Mr Cromwell.

Anne looks up to see the black-clad shape beyond the vine-draped trellis, "Perhaps I should have sought refuge in one of the stables."

Smiling, he enters the herber, "I fear so, Majesty. They are, for all their disadvantages, blessed with a roof that can conceal you from above." The smile becomes a frown, "What ails you, Majesty?"

She sighs, "Naught but wishing for that which is past; which serves nothing, and no one. What news of London?" she indicates that he sit upon the bench opposite.

"Nothing good, I fear." He admits as he seats himself, "My Lord of Southampton is dispatching messengers twice a day, as the news warrants it, while the Lord Admiral has taken it upon himself to receive reports from the countryside to add to the Lord President's dispatches."

"They are good men."

He nods, "Very good - for they have remained at their posts even as the plague has closed in upon the town. To do so in the face of such danger is a true and loyal act."

"In which case, I shall ensure that they, or their families should they miscarry, are rewarded for it when all is done - or, if I cannot, then Elizabeth shall know of my request and act upon it."

"I shall ensure that your request is noted." Cromwell reaches for some papers in his ever-present portfolio, "Your brother has written. Her Majesty the Queen continues to progress northwards with her reduced train, and her train is dispensing alms as they do so, while ensuring that there are refuges for those who flee the contagion that shall shelter them - but also keep them apart from nearby towns. I have seen great cruelties inflicted upon those who flee sickness when they look to others for aid - out of fear that they bring the sickness with them."

"Are matters equally poor outside England? Or are the rumours false?"

"It is hard to say, Majesty." He admits, "My sources are unusually silent; which suggests to me that they have more pressing concerns. It is likely that we shall have nothing to fear from foreign powers, for those who are most close to our borders are as afflicted as we."

Anne's eyes widen, "And I take it that such silence glowers over Flanders also?"

He nods.

She tries to smile, "If I know my father, he shall already have fled to better accommodation. He has always been a consummate survivor." The smile falters as her fears come to the fore. In spite of all, the fear that he might die has struck at her heart rather more brutally than she anticipated, and her voice wavers slightly, "He is all that remains of my family other than my brother and sister, Mr Cromwell. Regardless of his behaviour to me, in the face of this crisis, I find myself afraid for him and wish that he were with me."

He regards her kindly, "It is natural for us to wish for the reassurance of our parents when we are endangered, Majesty. Even though my own father was capable of great brutality towards me, when I was at my most desperate - half starved and in rags upon the streets of Florence, the angry words I spoke to him before my departure were forgotten, and I wished that I was with him again." He pauses, and smiles slightly, "Though it was only out of desperation that I thought so, for he showed love to me only rarely, though I think that I regarded it as such when it was instead merely a short cessation of his temper."

"What a pair of malcontents we are, Mr Cromwell." She smiles at him then, "England faces great danger, and we are complaining about our lot in life. Come - walk with me awhile. The sun is warm and the birds know nothing of our problems. Thus I shall share their peaceful ignorance for this afternoon, and let the world encroach upon me again in the morning.

* * *

The grooms are busy, leading horses to the stables as Sir John Gage, accompanied by his Steward and a page, makes his way into the house, "Forgive my delay, Mr Cromwell; I wished to ensure that my family were safely ensconced at our Country manor."

Petre arrived yesterday, and has already met with the reduced Council to offer his own view of matters in the countryside. HIs observations are grim, and it looks likely from Gage's face that his own tidings are little better. Sighing, Cromwell nods, "We shall meet after the midday meal. Take the time to refresh yourself from your ride - I shall inform her Majesty that you are here."

"Audley is under a rock somewhere, I think - none have heard from him, while Baker was last seen in Coventry, heading north." His voice is riven with scorn at their apparent cowardice.

"We assumed that they were not interested in joining us."

"You assumed correctly." Gage snorts cheerfully, before turning to follow one of Felton's stewards to his allotted chambers, and addressing him, "Have my page's bedding brought in - I assume there are quarters for the boys?"

Anne is sitting in the largest of the smaller chambers alongside the hall, reading a long letter from her daughter, which has observations of its own, "The news is spreading, Mr Cromwell; even where the sickness has not been seen, people know of it, and are fearful."

"That is inevitable, I fear, Majesty. As those who flee stricken towns make their way through the realm in search of safety, they carry the dread tidings with them; but they are moving in such numbers that the sickness is travelling with them, and thus it has been reported in Cambridge, Ely and Peterborough, as well as Norwich. There are refugees being turned away from Oxford, which has led to some outbreaks of disorder that local militias have put down. The mood of Englishmen is fearful and thus all look to protect themselves as best they may."

She nods, "Should any pass by here, they should be accommodated in the Dower House that we have set aside. I shall not emulate the poltroonery of the Oxford Aldermen."

He nods, though his expression is far from happy. In such times, refugees bring sickness with them - and, regardless of her claims, England would be poorly served by the loss of the Regent while the Queen is still a maid. Her decision is made, however, and thus he shall abide by it, and work with all his will - and skill - to keep her safe.

Dinner is a quiet affair; the conversation subdued at best, as no one can think of anything to say that does not touch upon the danger that England faces. Another message from the Lord President has arrived in Gage's wake to advise that, in spite of their efforts to keep people out, Oxford has also succumbed, and the sickness is reported there.

With little talk to slow down consumption of the victuals, the diners rise within an hour, and are soon gathered again in the makeshift Council chamber.

"Even in the light of the news from Oxford," Cromwell begins, "We must endeavour to look beyond this calamity and consider how we shall respond once the storm abates. We know that - eventually - the sickness always subsides, and thus we must be prepared for fear that there shall be insufficient men to bring in the harvest. Equally, while we are - at present - a poor prospect for invasion, there is the risk that this shall change once the sickness has passed, and thus I am examining the reports from the survey of the ports that was so hastily abandoned by the former Earl of Wiltshire, but continued by my own commissioners. We have sufficient ships to form a naval force, and the Lord Admiral ordered that as many ships as could be spared put to sea as soon as the extent of the plague became clear, in hopes that their separation from the shore might protect the sailors from infection."

"You think an invasion likely?" Sussex asks.

"I suspect not." Cromwell admits, "The Emperor and King Francis remain very much engaged upon one another in their quests to increase their territories at one another's expense. They are most likely to look upon our shores with hungry eyes - but at present they are looking in other directions. It does not, however, do to be unprepared."

There is little else that they can discuss. All that they can do, they have done - and there is nothing much now left but to sit tight, like birds facing a storm, and wait for the tempest to pass.

"Thank you Gentlemen." Anne sighs, "We shall meet again upon the morrow if there is more news. Until then, I shall retire to my apartments and spend some time at prayer for those who are facing this sickness." It is, after all, the only remaining option that is open to her to at least attempt to bring aid to those in need.

They rise as she does, and bow as she departs.

As he gathers his papers, Cromwell turns to see that Rich is staring out of the window, apparently oblivious to the shufflings of his fellow councillors as they make their way back to their own chambers. The Lord Privy Seal has said nothing throughout the discussions, and it could not be more obvious to him that his colleague is becoming ever more frightened at what might lie ahead.

"I cannot help them, Mr Cromwell." He says, eventually, "My wife is with child, and my family are gathered around her - but I am here, and I know nothing of their welfare." He does not add the words _and I am afraid_. He does not need to - for he is not alone in that fear.

Crossing to stand beside his colleague, he sighs, "We have done all that we can. All that remains for us now is to look to God, and ask Him to look upon us with kindness and mercy. Equally, we must be strong; for England needs us to be."

"I am not strong."

"You remain here though Audley and Baker have fled."

"I was already here - thus that is not a valid assurance." Cromwell turns to see that Rich is smiling slightly, well aware of his faults.

"Then perhaps a few hands of cards shall distract you." He smiles back, rather more cheerfully than the circumstances might suggest, "I am interested to see if you can win when there are no ladies at the table."

* * *

The moon is a sliver of a crescent, leaving the gardens below shrouded in darkness. Seated in a windowseat, wrapped in a thick cloak over her night garment, Anne watches over the silent world of the night, lost in thought.

It has been a long time since she last endured such wakefulness, and emerging from her bed without waking Margery as she snored lightly on the truckle at the end of it was something of a challenge; but sleep seems to be an elusive companion tonight, and thus she sits quietly and attempts - vainly - to think of other things.

How many are sick tonight? How many have died? Who of her subjects have fled warm houses to lie under bushes and attempt to sleep in the open? Is Elizabeth safe? Has she kept herself ahead of the spreading contagion? Questions, questions, questions. Endlessly repeating and always without answers.

The oriel window gives her a fine view across the house frontage - a grand half-square of two great wings linked by a single, centre range, while the court is enclosed only by a wall and gatehouse. Once, the entire square would have been made up by ranges of chambers; but Sir James is keen to emulate new building styles, and thus the house is divided into three.

Such is the determination to keep her safe from gossip that all of her councilmen are housed in the opposite wing, and she looks across at the unlit windows with minor envy for the lack of a reciprocal candle to show that any others share her wakefulness. The family have given up their chambers for her, and thus reside in lesser accommodation in the centre range. Her view is too restricted to see if any of the Fenton brood are equally held from the comforting silence of sleep.

There is insufficient light from the tiny moon to illuminate the clock upon the gatehouse, but the small bell within strikes twice. Sighing to herself, she moves from the window and settles into the larger of the chairs, leaning her head against a wing and continuing to fail to put her fears from her mind. God have mercy…how can she ever hope to sleep?

"Majesty."

The word startles her, and she looks up sharply to find that it is daylight, and Margery is standing over her; but her Lady's face is absolutely alabaster white, and her eyes are wide with fear.

"What is it, Madge? What is the time?"

"It is half an hour past five…" Margery's voice is shaking. Nervous now, Anne looks up at her, "What has happened?"

"Mr Cromwell has sent a message across from his chambers." Her hand shaking, Margery clutches a note. That in itself is a warning of what the message shall be, but Anne snatches it fearfully and unfolds it.

_Majesty, I fear that our precautions have not spared us. The page who arrived with Sir John yesterday has taken sick. The other pages in the dormitory attempted to rouse him from his bed to commence their duties for the day, only to find that he is stricken with a fever. He has shown other signs of plague, and thus I must ask that you keep from this part of the house at all costs. I have asked that the exits from the Western wing of the house be barred in hopes that the contagion shall be held within. I had thought to use the Dower House to contain those who were sick - but instead I ask that you remove there immediately, and do not permit any to enter once you are there. Lady Fenton has ensured that there are victuals stored there, and all is prepared. Move there without delay, and do not seek to return to the house until the sickness is past. I have ordered that Sir James and Lord Sandys escort you there, as he was quartered in the Gatehouse and thus should not return here._

_C_

Her eyes widen in horror, "No - I will not do so. I must offer aid! Madge, select a gown, I care not which, I must dress quickly and attend to them!"

"Majesty!" Margery's expression is appalled, "You cannot - England needs you; her Majesty needs you!"

Fenton is in the doorway, his own face shocked, "It is decided, Majesty - you shall remove to the Dower House immediately, while my wife shall remain to care for those who are sick. I shall wait for you to be dressed; while your servants gather those belongings that you require for your immediate comfort."

She stares at him, a little helplessly. He is right - Mr Cromwell is right; but to flee from her Council when they are facing a trial such as this? How can she do so? But she must. He has asked it of her - and she has promised to accept his advice.

"Very well, Sir James. I shall do as advised - but whatever succour I can offer, I demand to be permitted to offer it. Whatever physics can be provided to ease those who are sick, I shall pay for them. Whatever is needed, it shall be at my expense. See to it."

"I shall, Majesty. As soon are you are ready, we shall depart." He turns as one of Sandys’s Stewards approaches to report that his master is without, waiting to escort the Regent to her refuge.

Shaking, Anne retreats to her bedchamber, where Margery has selected a simple kirtle of Mary blue and an ivory overgown. They are not entirely meant for one another, but who is going to care at a time like this? Her mind racing with worries, she allows her maids to dress her, before retrieving a cross and a prayerbook and struggling not to give into the anguished tears that threaten to drown her.

She had promised her Lord Treasurer that they would walk together into the valley of the shadow of death. But now she is being forced to flee, and leaving him to make that cruel journey alone.


	41. Into the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more long-overdue thanks for all the kudos - I'm glad that you're enjoying the story!
> 
> Just a quick little note covering a Britishism in the text. 'Second floor' in UK English is equivalent to 'Third floor' in US English.

Sussex is pale, but composed, as he and Cromwell watch over the barring of the doors that shall enclose them in the west wing of Fenton's manor house, "God help us, Mr Cromwell - but I give thanks that her Majesty is to remove and be safe."

The page is confined to a small chamber at the top of the house, while the rest have been moved to the other end of the attics, all of them horribly afraid, for they were in the dormitory with the youth who took sick. What if there are bad humours within that room that have infected them?

Gage has taken it upon himself to tend to the youth, on the grounds that the boy is the son of a faithful retainer to whom he promised good care, while Lady Fenton has - with great courage - insisted upon remaining with her guests to see to their comfort while her husband and children remove to the Dower House with the Regent. As the kitchens are entirely separate from the house, to avoid the risk of fire, the provision of victuals can continue - though the dishes shall be set in the porch, and collected by one of the senior stewards of Sussex's household. Just as those poor wretches of the slums are obliged to be shut up in their houses when the plague enters, so shall they be.

Petre crosses to join them, "I have set aside a chamber for us to use as a meeting place while we are able." He advises, "As long as we are free of this sickness, there is no reason why we should not continue to operate as a Council. My chief steward shall receive dispatches from London, which shall be dropped at the gatehouse and passed through by those who are there. The upper chambers are being prepared for those who take sick, in hopes that we can confine the humours that are exuded and thus keep ourselves away from them."

Cromwell nods. He is not surprised at their behaviour. Both Gage and Petre have shown for a long time that their remedy for a fearful situation is to keep themselves occupied. It is his own preferred method, and Sussex appears to be of the same mind. It is also the means by which he tends to keep Rich from becoming overwrought in stressful situations - though his colleague is rather conspicuous by his absence.

"Where is the Rat?" Sussex asks, as though he has heard Cromwell's thoughts.

"I have asked him to set aside a small chamber to use as an office in order to keep her Majesty informed of matters in the House, there he shall compile reports which shall be passed in exchange for those which come from London." Cromwell advises, though he did so over two hours ago, and such duties do not take _that_ long. Rich is not a brave man - they all know it, even _he_ knows it. Their collective mettle is to be tested sorely in the coming days, and some shall face it with more fortitude than others. Were he to claim to be unafraid, then he would be a liar; for all his encroaching age, he remains wedded to the joy of life, and is not ready to relinquish his place in the world just yet.

The kitchens have served a mutton stew with bread, all delivered to the porch, and the servants who have not been fortunate to have been outside the wing prior to its closure busy themselves with serving it to the gathered Councillors. Their own portion awaits, and shall be consumed later. Gage has still not come down from the upper attic, and Lady Fenton remains absent for the same reason, while Rich has finally emerged, and sits before his dish, staring at the stew and apparently unable to contemplate consuming it.

"I am told that a dispatch has come from London." Petre advises, dipping a small morsel of bread into his gravy, "Her Majesty has viewed it, and sent it on to us."

Cromwell nods, "Good, we shall consider it this afternoon, though if there is a chamber free to do so, I think I shall set it aside for devotions. There is little else available to us now other than prayer, so it seems appropriate to secure a space for the purpose even in the absence of a chaplain."

"Perhaps the dispatch shall offer better news." Sussex muses with a faint smile, "There is always that hope - even if it be a singularly desperate one."

They are all startled by a sudden clatter and look at Rich, who is fumbling for something that he appears to have dropped upon the table; a medallion of some sort. Noticing their scrutiny, he reddens with embarrassment, but offers no explanation, instead resuming his nervous contemplation of his untouched dish.

Before they can equally resume, there is a light knock upon the door, followed by the sound of paper being pushed beneath it. Concerned, Cromwell rises from his seat to retrieve it, and reads the contents, sagging slightly as he does so.

"The boy is dying, and it seems that Sir John has also begun to take sick. There are buboes upon the youth - it is assuredly plague."

Sussex crosses himself, while Petre reaches for the note and reads it obsessively, as though doing so shall make the tidings change to better news.

"I think I shall see to preparing that chapel." Cromwell sighs, "I suspect it is likely that we shall need it rather more rapidly than I thought.”

* * *

There is no cross of suitable size within the west wing of the house, and with the rest of the building largely empty, no one to fetch one from the chapel for them. Instead, Cromwell has set up a small plain cross that he carries in his baggage to set upon whatever table is available in the various chambers he occupies. God does not demand ostentation in place of faith, after all.

There are no cushions to hand, so instead he carefully arranges the folds of his simarre so that he can kneel upon the floorboards without too much pain. For all his loathing of the bloated ceremony and decoration of the Roman faith, he has always been intent upon a dialogue with God, even when things are settled and calm. Now, however, England is suffering, and his only means of aiding the realm he has dedicated himself to serve is to go down upon his knees and plead for aid.

Behind him, the door opens, and he senses, rather than sees, Sussex kneel alongside him, the Lord Chancellor's distinctive orris-root scent identifying him without the need for Cromwell to open his eyes, "Amend your prayers to include the youth - he gave up his soul not ten minutes ago. Sir John is worsening."

Rather than answering, Cromwell nods. One dead already, and another sick. That shall indeed grieve the Regent; he shall ask Rich to compile a report to send to her. Rising, he nods his head respectfully, and departs.

The Lord Privy Seal's chambers are upon the second floor, with a fine view across the wide parkland beyond the kitchen gardens, and Cromwell knocks politely. Then frowns at the lack of a summons to enter.

"Mr Rich?"

Silence.

Concerned, Cromwell ignores propriety and opens the door to find his colleague leaning out of the window, his arm reaching for something to the side with such effort that he is almost halfway between the room and the outside. For a moment, he is bemused, wondering what Rich is trying to do; until he realises that the object being sought is one of the leaden down-spouts that stretches from the roof to the ground. He is attempting to climb out.

Without hesitation, Cromwell rushes forth, grasping at Rich's doublet and forcibly pulling him back inside, "What are you doing? It is two floors to the ground, are you mad? That down-spout could never take your weight!" As he does so, he can see briefly that there is a crumpled cloak upon the flags below, presumably dropped from the window in order to be donned once its owner had also reached the ground.

Rich is not pleased to have been so rudely grasped, and pushes back with such force that the pair fall backwards and land awkwardly upon the carpeted floorboards with a heavy thud, "Get back from me! I cannot stay - I will not stay and die like a penned cow! I cannot! The boy is dead! I heard them say so, and Gage is sick - are we all to die with them?"

"If we must. I will not be responsible for the spread of plague - if we can hold it here then perhaps that shall…"

"You know it shall not save them!" Rich interrupts, his eyes frantic, "It shall not save us! You might be brave enough to stay and die, but I am not! I saw what the plague does to those it kills - I cannot face that death, I cannot! Oh dear God - have you no pity?"

"Have you no courage?" Cromwell demands in return, "You would risk carrying plague-ridden humours to any whom you meet - even though it could kill them and their children? What kind of craven coward are you?"

"Whatever coward you wish to name!" Rich snaps back, "I am not you! I have no bravery - only the horrors of seeing a woman's fingers turn black, vomiting black bile and screaming curses upon God for not protecting her! If you think I shall stay to endure such a fate, then you are a greater fool than any in Christendom! If we stay, we shall die - all of us, and in horrors as bad as hers!"

"That cannot be said with any certainty - we have done what we can to protect ourselves, and so we can continue to serve England."

"Damn serving England! What use are we if we are dead? There is still time - we are not sick, we can still escape this place…"

Furious, Cromwell grasps Rich's shoulders and shakes him, "Stop this! Stop! You are a Privy Councillor, _act_ like one!"

"If we do not leave, then we shall die - you know it, I know it - please, please let me go…" his voice is faltering, and he sags, "I cannot face that fate…I saw it…I saw what she endured…I cannot do the same…"

"Who?" bemused, Cromwell's tone is less angry, and he is surprised as Rich sets in his hand the medallion that he dropped at the dinner table.

"My nurse." He says eventually, "I was but a child - not yet old enough for a tutor. She was the centre of my world, for - to my mind - my mother favoured my elder brother. She wore this as a protective against sickness - it is St Juliana of Nicomedia - but it could not save her from the plague. None noticed that I was present and saw her as she sickened and died - I saw it all…her agony, the blackening of her limbs, her curses against God in the midst of delirium…and then she choked upon her own bile and was dead."

Cromwell examines the medallion, a crudely chased depiction of a woman hanging by her hair, "And you keep it."

"Even though it did nothing to protect her, I keep it." Rich admits, painfully, "She was as a mother to me as I thought mine was not - I have never forgotten her miseries - and now it is here…in this house…" his voice falters away entirely, and is replaced by stricken tears. Of fear, or grief - Cromwell cannot say with any certainty.

Rather than turn away from his weeping colleague, instead, Cromwell sets his hands upon Rich's shoulders, "I am sorry. I thought your act to be naught but rank cowardice - but now I see there is a motivation behind it. There is no shame in fear, you know that as I do. The shame is in a refusal to face that fear. You are not alone in being afraid - we are all afraid: I am no more willing to throw my life away than any man. I do not demand that you stay; but instead I ask you not to go. We have proved to be a great bastion against which the tides have battered but not prevailed - and I fear I cannot meet this challenge alone. Unlike most men, I have learned to trust you, and thus I ask again: please do not go. I need you here - I cannot do this without you at my side."

Slowly, Rich looks up, then clambers back to his feet. Turning, he approaches the oriel and again reaches out, but grasps the handle of the window and draws it closed, "No one has ever said such to me." He says, turning back again, "If you are brave enough to stay, then I shall try to be the same. I cannot promise bravery - but I shall try."

Cromwell joins him at the window, "I do not ask for perfection, Richard. For all your faults, England needs you. Equally, for all _my_ faults, England needs me. Let us serve her as we promised, and - God willing - we shall still have an England to give back to her Majesty when all is done."

He lapses into silence, and they stand together, watching a flock of starlings as they cross the sky in an undulating cloud of a thousand feathered bodies. God alone knows what is to come - but at least he shall not face it alone.

* * *

"Another letter from Mr Rich, Majesty." Margery's voice is quiet, nervous. She grasps the paper between finger and thumb, as though convinced that it might hold some foul contamination that might bring her to her grave as it has so many others outside the boundaries of Sir James's estate.

Her eyes tired, Anne sets aside another report from Lord Southampton and reaches for it. She has been trapped in this house for a week and a half, endlessly waiting for news from London, or from the House where her councillors are trapped as she is - only they are trapped with a deadly sickness that stalks them one by one.

So far she has been advised that Sir John is dead, and that both Sir William and Lord Sussex have been stricken. Six of the servants in the wing are also dead, while only three remain unaffected to assist Lady Fenton in aiding those who have been taken ill. Of her Councillors, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich are still working as best they can, while Lord Sandys assists her in person - but they are all that remain to govern and advise her.

Busying herself with some pewter plates, Margery turns as Anne utters a small moan, "Majesty?"

"My Lord of Sussex has been called to God." She sits back in her chair sadly, "I should have sent him north with Elizabeth and Jane. She has lost her father - and we can only advise her by letter."

"Send it to Lady Rochford, Majesty." Margery advises, "Ask her to assist Elizabeth in giving these grievous tidings to Jane - she shall have the Rochfords and her dearest friend to comfort her."

"I shall do so." Anne agrees, rising from her chair to seat herself at her writing desk, "Other than that, matters remain as they are - they are no worse, but they are no better."

She hates being here. Hates being trapped in this damned house while her Realm suffers - and her own Councillors endure a similar trial. She would confide in Mr Cromwell, always her confidant of choice thanks to his level head and calm manner; but he is confined in that damned house with those who are sick and dying. Her brother has gone north with Elizabeth, taking Lady Rochford with her - were it not for Madge, she would almost certainly have struck out at her serving staff by now in her frustration at her helplessness. She was meant to be governing England and protecting the realm; but instead she is a helpless prisoner - as confined as the damsel in those awful romances they used to read and laugh over when she resided in France.

"God's blood, will you cease your faddling, Madge!" her temper is tightly wound, and Margery's rather helpless tidying of that which is already tidy is stirring it rather more than she would like. Looking up, she sees the brimming tears, and sighs, "Forgive me - I did not mean to speak so. I feel as though I am a caged cat; but it is not right that I should unleash claws upon you."

Margery cuffs at her eye with her sleeves, "Forgive me, too, Majesty. I think that I should be braver than this, for we are far from the sickness, but nonetheless, I am fearful."

"It is no sin to be afraid, Madge." Anne rises from her writing desk and crosses to hug her trembling friend, "We are both afraid - and thus we must meet this together. I think I should be far more fearful if I did not have you at my side."

She returns to her desk, but does not re-charge her quill. Sussex is dead - her Lord Chancellor taken from her. While he was not a close member of her inner circle, she relied greatly upon his knowledge and experience. He was at her side from the beginning of her Regency, and now he is gone. Please God, spare her Lord Treasurer. Should he emerge from this, then he shall most assuredly be worthy to step into the late Lord's place. Perhaps with a peerage to wipe the smirks from the faces of the rest of the nobility. Yes - that is what shall be done. In spite of herself, she smiles at the thought of the scandalised expressions that shall accompany the act - as there were when Henry raised her to the peerage prior to their marriage.

The two ladies dine in silence, their meal a simple offering of meat and bread, and then return to the endless cycle of pointless attempts to pass the time. Waiting for news from London. Waiting for news from the House. Waiting, waiting waiting…

Anne has set down her lute for the third time, having previously attempted to play it, only to set it aside twice as the evening candles are lit. Soothing though it can be to play the instrument, she cannot find the will to do so. Not while she is helpless against this endless waiting. Supper shall be naught but broth and bread, for her appetite is still weak, and Margery has failed - again - to persuade her to eat something more sustaining.

Another messenger has arrived from Windsor, and this time with better news, as it seems that the sickness is subsiding in London - but it remains present in the shires, and there are no suggestions of a similar abatement there, though it seems that at least in some quarters, those who are struck down seem to be surviving in larger numbers than have done previously, as though they are strong enough to do so. They have been fortunate in that harvests have been a little better recently, and thus prices are lower, so people are better fed. It seems remarkable that something so simple should be so helpful, but nonetheless, it appears to be so.

But that, in itself, does not halt the march of the plague through the realm. Much as she would wish it, this outbreak of pestilence is far from over.

Sighing to herself, she sits back in the chair and attempts to think of other things - any other thing - only to be disturbed again by the sound of another knock upon the door. Margery opens it, accepts something and crosses to her.

"Another note from the House, Majesty."

_Now what?_ She thinks to herself as she takes it and scans the words.

Then Margery stares at her in shock as her face drains of colour, "No - God, no…"

"What? What is it, Majesty?"

Anne is upon her feet, "Fetch me a cloak. I must go - I must go to the house at once."

"What - why?" Margery turns in surprise as the Regent hastens from the chamber calling for a maid, "A cloak! Where is the wretched girl? Alice! A cloak! _Now_!"

Bemused, the Queen's Lady reaches for the discarded note, and scans it.

_Majesty, I have further news. While Sir William has turned the corner and appears to be recovering, I regret to advise that Mr Cromwell has been taken ill with a fever. I shall work with Lady Fenton to see to his welfare, and shall keep you advised of his progress._

_R_

* * *

Lady Fenton is exhausted, and she looks across the the only remaining Councillor still able to stand to see that he is little better. With so few servants still able to assist her, he has found himself pressed into service as a nurse. In spite of his absolute terror of becoming sick, he has - to the surprise of those who have seen it - accepted the task, and has worked diligently under her direction, though that medallion of St Juliana has been singularly prominent about his neck in the process.

Petre has, to everyone's relief, emerged from the sickness, and the horrible buboes are subsiding; though he remains very weak, and has little appetite for the bone broth that Rich is attempting to spoon to him. Of the pages that came into the House, and those who were quartered in the Wing, only three remain. Four are dead, while one remains likely to follow them. One is recovering, and thus is unable to serve as he remains abed, but two did not become sick, and they have proven a Godsend in their diligence and bravery, being obliged to remove the dead from their beds to be laid in graves hastily dug out in the park by a small crew of gardeners who will do no more than open the graves, leaving the pages to close them again. The stewards have been less fortunate, for all became sick, and only one looks likely to survive.

Should they come through this hell intact, then a priest shall be summoned to oversee more appropriate rites for those who have been so rudely consigned to God. Until then, however, it is a great relief to those who remain in the house that the pages who carry the bodies out always come back afterwards.

It is clear that Petre cannot accept any more broth, and Rich sets it aside, wondering what is happening a few doors down, where Lady Fenton is now seeing to Cromwell. _God help England if that man dies_ , he thinks to himself, as he makes his way - giddy with tiredness - to the door to hand the dish to an equally exhausted page, and then stumbles to their makeshift chapel.

How it is that he remains well when all others around him have taken sick, he cannot imagine, for he has never held much stock in the medallion that he has worn so obsessively since the plague arrived at their door. But all around him have fallen ill, while he has not; so he counts his blessings as best he can and sinks down upon his knees before Cromwell's small wooden cross, crosses himself and retrieves his rosary, which he has also been carrying rather obsessively.

Rather than think of nothing, he meditates upon the sorrowful mysteries, concentrating upon the suffering and death of Christ, for they, too suffer and die. Gradually, as his tension fades, he sinks down to sit upon his heels, then sits, leaning against the wall as his tiredness overtakes him, gradually sliding downwards further still until he is fast asleep upon the floor.

A hand upon his shoulder rouses him with a sharp grunt, and he lifts his head to see one of the pages, "Forgive me, my Lord - but her Majesty is without, demanding that she be permitted entry - what am I to do?"

Slowly, awkwardly, Rich sits up again, "Do not open the door. We must keep her out at all costs. Give me a moment, I shall be with you anon."

Groaning at the stiffness of his neck, he clambers back to his feet and emerges from the temporary chapel to the sound of a singular argument.

"Please, Majesty - I cannot allow you to enter. I beg that you remain without. The Lord Privy Seal…"

"The Lord Privy Seal shall allow me entry, if he wishes to _remain_ the Lord Privy Seal. Open this door!"

In spite of his tiredness, Rich cannot suppress a mild smile at the Regent's determined demand, and quickly steps forth to the viewing port, "Forgive him, Majesty - he is but following orders. He is also right - we cannot permit you entry."

"Let me in, Mr Rich. I cannot remain shut away any longer - I must come in."

"No, Majesty. You must remain without."

She glares at him, "'Must' is not a word to be used to Princes, Mr Rich." She snaps.

He shakes his head, "I shall not permit you to enter, Majesty. Even at the cost of my rank if you demand it. I feared for my life, until he bade me find my courage. For that, I shall do all that I can for him - and I shall not open this door, for to do so shall place you at risk. Of all the errors I could make, that would be the one that he could not forgive."

She leans forward, "I cannot lose him, Mr Rich. I would be lost without his guidance and support. It is for me to restore him to health."

"No, Majesty. It is not."

" _Let me in, damn you!_ " her frustration finally erupts in a fit of rage that startles even the man on the other side of the door, "If you do not, then I shall see to it that you are banished henceforth from Court and shall never return again! He is a father to me as my own was not! I will not lose him! Do you hear me? I _will_ not!"

His eyes are pained, "He is a friend to me, and I value that friendship, for he has seen my greatest weakness, and does not scorn me for it. I am no more willing to lose his counsel than you, Majesty. I swear to you that I shall do all that I can to aid him - but I cannot grant you entry to this house."

At last, she sags and gives way, "Then ensure that he lives, Mr Rich. For you, for me and for England."

"I give you my word that I shall try."

She nods, and turns to go, allowing him to shut the viewing port.

The other page approaches, "Forgive me, my Lord, but Lady Fenton has become unwell. It seems that she, too, has now been struck with plague."

Slowly, Rich turns to face the youth, then closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the door with a faint groan. If Lady Fenton is now sick, then there is no one left to offer succour to those who are stricken.

No one left but him.

* * *

Rich stares helplessly at the bed, where Lady Fenton has just breathed her last. In the course of two days, she has shown no capacity to fight the sickness, her tiredness weakening her to the point that she succumbed more quickly than any of the others who were stricken. She had not even set aside time to eat unless it was essential to do so in order not to faint. Such courage - and this is her reward.

No. It is not this that is the reward - it is eternal rest and bliss at God's side. He has called her home to enjoy perpetual peace and warmth, and if that is not a reward, then what is?

Slowly, he turns to the two pages, who look even tireder than he feels, "There is no more that can be done - send word to the gardeners to prepare a grave for their mistress. I shall assist you in carrying her to it once it is ready."

His exhaustion seems to verge almost upon a mildly crazed ecstasy, as he stumbles along the corridor toward the room where Petre is resting. While the sickness has left him, he is weakened and seems unlikely to regain his full strength. The surviving steward is at his side, offering him warmed milk brewed with herbs, and there is no need for Rich to stay, so instead he turns and totters his way to the only other remaining sickroom.

He has not been away from it for long - as there is now no one other than he to care for the man who lies in the bed, silent and burning with a fever that confuses Rich, for no others fell ill in such fashion. Perhaps it is not plague after all - but something else…

_God, please let it be something else_ …

Now and again, Cromwell mumbles something, though it is too indistinct for Rich to decipher, so he wets a cloth and drapes it across his colleague's forehead - as though that might help. Perhaps it might. He is no physician.

The door opens, "Forgive me, my Lord; the grave is prepared."

Sighing, he nods, and rises. He has helped to carry several of the dead to their last rest, as the two pages were hardly strong enough to do so with the rather corpulent Sussex. Since then, he has formed an integral part of the burial party.

Shrouded in the sheets from the bed in which she died, Lady Fenton is small and light. It would be no hardship for the two youths to carry her, but they have been through such misery that he can no longer bring himself to make them carry out the task alone.

With infinite care, the three set her remains into the grave that the gardeners have left for her. Crossing himself, Rich mumbles a few words of prayer for her soul, before handing out the shovels to cover the corpse. By the time they are done, he is dusty with the dry earth, and so tired he wonders how it is that he can still stand upright.

He changes his garments, not wishing to befoul Cromwell's sickroom, and eyes the bed in his own chambers with painful longing, for he has not slept in it for nearly three days. That shall not keep his promise, however, and he forces himself to emerge from the chamber to return to his colleague's side.

There appears to be no change, and he seats himself beside the bed again, checking the damp cloth upon Cromwell's forehead. Too exhausted to think any longer, he sinks back into the solace of prayer, extracting the rosary again and working through the decades as he has not done in many years. Cromwell would not approve; but Cromwell cannot see what he does, lost in the depths of a fever.

_I am not a good man, Holy Father…I am naught but a coward and a traitor who looked to flee a dreaded fate. Yet You have chosen to spare my life and keep me living when all about me have died. I am not worthy of such consideration, but I give thanks for it._

There is no help for it. He cannot keep his head up any longer, and rests it upon his arms, leaning over the side of the bed. Just a rest. A short rest…

A hand is resting upon his head, and he smiles, "I am awake, Nana Martha."

"Of course you are, Dickon." Her voice reflects her reciprocal smile, "Come now. Your mother has asked to see you."

He is surprised; his mother never asks to see him. She prefers to see Robert. She always has.

"Come now, Dickon. It is time to rise - she wishes to see you. It would not do for you to be late."

"Yes Nana Martha."

He shifts slightly, and something scratches against his cheek, a sharp coldness that jerks him out of that peaceful reverie. God…he has fallen asleep…what is he thinking?

Aching with tiredness from so little sleep, he raises his head and realises that there is indeed a hand set upon it, but it is not the hand of his long-dead nurse.

"So you stayed." Cromwell's voice is weak, and he is clearly far from well, but whatever sickness struck him, it was indeed not the plague. Instead, there appears to be a mottling of red across the backs of his hands - though not the redness of the pox.

"I did." Rich mumbles, "And there are few of us left."

"My fever is broken, Richard. There is no need for you to stay here - go: sleep. I shall also rest, and, I hope, we shall advise her Majesty that our trial is past."

"She tried to come to you, when I told her you were sick."

"She did? How foolish of her. I shall remonstrate with her most strongly when I see her next."

"There are two pages left, and one steward. Otherwise it is you and I, and Petre. The others are all dead."

"We shall discuss this once all are rested. I shall rest, as shall you. Advise the pages that they should do likewise. We shall regroup upon the morrow."

Rich shakes his head, "I promised her."

"Then consider your promise kept."

Unable to answer, Rich nods, and rises to make his way back to his chambers.

* * *

Anne's face falls as she stands at the doorway and looks into the entrance hall, "So few?"

Even now, she remains without, at the insistence of the men within, for they cannot be certain that the house has been fully expunged of foul humours, and it is not worth the risk to her Majesty's health to invite her inside.

Seated in a chair, Cromwell nods, "Forgive me if I do not rise, I am still rather weaker than I hoped, as is Sir William." He indicates Petre, who is also seated. Of her surviving councillors, only Rich is capable of standing, though that is owing to nearly a full day's unbroken sleep, and two days of rest while Cromwell continued his recovery.

Southampton and Russell are still alive, thank God, sending reports to her of how things are in the shires. To her relief, the plague has spread no further north than Oxford, and even the towns that have endured it are emerging now. It seems that the worst is over, God willing, and she can travel north to reunite with her daughter.

She turns to Rich, "I fear that I owe you an apology, Mr Rich; I was unforgivably rude to you when you kept me from entering the house."

"It is of no moment, Majesty. You were concerned for us."

"We shall rest here awhile, I think. Until you are well enough to undertake the journey north, Gentlemen." She turns to Fenton, who stands beside her, "I am so sorry, Sir James. Even though it was upon her insistence, I am nonetheless saddened that her bravery was rewarded so poorly."

His eyes sad, Fenton shakes his head, "No, not poorly, Majesty. I have no doubt that even now she is experiencing her heavenly reward for her courage and faith. She was willing to make such a sacrifice, and I am proud of her, even as I grieve for her."

"I shall send for a Priest. Before we depart, we shall ensure that the souls of those who died here are properly consigned to God. I have no doubt that He has already welcomed them into His loving embrace - but it seems right that we should do so."

"Thank you, Majesty." Fenton bows.

The losses have been dreadful, but they have come through. Tomorrow they shall regroup, and start anew.


	42. An Expression of Trust

The chamber is warm from the sun after three days of rain, and Cromwell is free from a sense of chill for the first time since he fell sick. It is not the chamber that he occupied prior to the outbreak of sickness, but that wing has been shut up entirely, for fear that the plague might recur, while all within it has been carefully removed and set upon a bonfire.

That was not an easy task; too many possessions of the dead being consigned to the flames. Petre seems too tired and weak to care at the loss of his baggage, but Rich is still shut in his rooms, mourning the loss of a number of deeply precious personal items that could not be saved, despite an impassioned protest on his part. For himself, Cromwell brought no such possessions, and cares not at all that all he brought with him is now ashes. He is grateful to be alive; though it is clear to all that he must have acquired whatever sickness befell him from a different badness in the air, as one of Sir James's boys has also been afflicted with a mild fever and a similar rash. He is most fortunate that his sickness was so mild in comparison to the sufferings of those who died.

Cromwell is strong enough now to no longer be confined to a chair, though excessive movement still tires him rather more than expected, while his appetite is still poor. He has no manservant, his own page and steward lost to the plague, and their loss stings him a great deal, as the boy was still new to his service, while Jonathan had served his needs for many years. They had been so looking forward to the opportunity to see England…

He closes his eyes, and clenches his fists, forcing his fingernails into his palms and concentrating on the pain. No tears - he cannot afford such a luxury when his Regent needs his counsel. He is alive, and that is all that counts at such a time as this.

Rising from his chair, he emerges from his chambers and goes in search of Rich. With Sussex and Gage dead, and Petre looking likely to retire given that he remains so weak, they are all that remains of the Council still in the Regent's presence other than Lord Sandys, who is looking most ashamed that he was obliged to flee to the Dower House while his colleagues suffered. Rochford is travelling north with the Queen, while Southampton and Russell are safe at Windsor. God alone knows what has happened to Audley and Baker. Either way, their desertion has assuredly banned them from the Queen's presence for the rest of the reign.

There is no answer when he knocks upon the door, so he ignores proprieties again and enters the room to find his colleague seated in a chair, almost obsessively working his way along a different rosary to the one he was obliged to cast into the bonfire while he stares fixedly at the small fire that burns in the ornate fireplace.

He does not look up as Cromwell fetches a chair and seats himself nearby, and they sit in silence for some time before Cromwell ventures to ask a question that has been troubling him, "Forgive me, but how is it that you were present when your nurse took sick with the plague?"

It is not an accusation of lying; more a sense of concern that Rich could have been of so little account to his parents that they would not notice that one of their children was present in a room that should have been shut up. Sons of the gentry and aristocracy are valued, are they not?

Rich remains silent for a dreadfully long time, but then slowly looks up, "We were in the midst of St Lawrence Jewry; my father decided to remain even in the face of sickness as he was intent upon the sale of wool from his flocks. If you think me avaricious and grasping, then it is from he that I learned it. Thus, when a kitchen girl took sick, it was too late for us to flee, for the city authorities barred our doors and forbade our escape. In the face of his actions, my father shut the servants up in the kitchens and pantry, and abandoned them to die, while we retreated to the other end of the house. But even that was too late, for my nurse also became sick."

"But they permitted you to remain in her presence?"

He shrugs, "As long as Robert was safe, they were unconcerned over a son that would not inherit. To my mind - even as a child - she was more my mother than the woman who bore me. After she was dead, my mother found me in the corner of her chamber, and I learned then that I had been wrong, for she comforted me without fear that I might have become sick."

"And you did not become sick?"

Rich shakes his head, "Perhaps the presence of sickness touched me but fled. I know not; but even now it has fled from me when it has taken so many others. And that, I cannot fathom."

Cromwell nods, "It is not unknown - I have heard tell of entire households who died but for one, who did not even become sick. How that is so, only God can say - but He has preserved you when He has taken others, as He has preserved me. It can only be that He has preserved us for a purpose. I take that to be the safe guidance of her Majesty the Queen to rule her Kingdom - and thus I shall give my all to do so."

"As shall I." Rich agrees, setting down the rosary and finally raising his head to smile back at his friend.

* * *

"Are you sure you wish to depart, Sir William?" Anne's expression is sad; for all his seeming quiet anonymity, she has valued Petre's aid as a Councillor.

"I think it best, Majesty." He sighs, "While the sickness has left me, so has my strength. At this time, I think there is little that I can do to serve you to the degree that you deserve."

She sighs, "As you wish; but should you recover your strength, know that you shall be welcome to return to my Council, for I am ever grateful for your loyalty. As soon as you feel able to depart to your home, I shall ensure that you shall be escorted in comfort at my expense, and I shall arrange for you to receive a pension of three hundred pounds a year for the rest of your days."

"Your Majesty is too generous; I am most grateful." He leans forth in his chair, as close to a bow as he can manage, "I have received word from my wife - all of my household are well, for the sickness did not reach them. Thus, as soon as it is possible to do so, I shall depart to join them."

Anne nods, "Of course - know that you do so with both my gratitude, and my blessing."

"I value both, Majesty."

One of the few surviving pages is approaching as she departs Petre's chambers, "I have received a letter from Viscount Rochford, Majesty. He has also sent a number of servants from his retinue to replace those who were taken by the sickness."

She nods, accepting the missive almost hungrily. In spite of being barely three weeks, the length of her Council's ordeal feels as though it has lasted for years; and to know of her daughter's welfare is now her greatest wish. George knows her well, and thus the first page of his letter speaks only of Elizabeth, her health, where she has travelled, whom she has met. Always they have managed to stay ahead of the sickness, dispensing alms as they pass and leaving sufficient monies for the infirmaries they visit to pay for what physics and succour might possibly be of use should they be needed. They have stopped in many parishes to pray at the churches with the parishioners - all of which at Elizabeth's insistence, for to do so was her idea.

_My dearest daughter; how proud I am of you_.

Not only has Elizabeth granted alms to those in need, but has walked amongst ordinary folk without hesitation or fear. If she is truly honest with herself, Anne would not have thought to do so - but equally would have forbidden such a manoeuvre upon the part of her child, too. In spite of her tender years, Elizabeth is proving to have a remarkable understanding of her people, and the intelligence to use that understanding. A Queen is not a King - people expect and value ruthlessness in a man, but fear it in a woman as an unnatural vice. Instead, she looks to a gentler path; and reaps the reward in renewed and increased love for her from her subjects. There shall be a need to be ruthless in time, that is not in doubt; but to have a cushion of regard upon which to rest when she does so is a worthy investment.

Mr Cromwell is in the makeshift presence chamber when she returns to her apartments, "How useful. I do not need to send for you."

"Forgive me, Majesty; I am told there is news from her Majesty's progress."

"There is indeed, my Lord Treasurer. It seems that it is not only Mr Rich who is known for such unwarranted inquisitiveness." She chuckles, handing over the letter, "Fear not, there are no statements therein that might be considered to be an embarrassment either to my brother or myself."

As he reads, Anne sends Matthew in search of Rich and Lord Sandys. Reduced her council may be, but at least those whose counsel she values the most are amongst the living, and thus they can build a new group of men to advise her daughter. Firstly, however, they must organise efforts to bring succour to those in the shires who have suffered an equal ordeal. The plague has subsided, yes, but nonetheless there are too many who have succumbed to it, and there remains a harvest to bring in if the survivors are not to starve in the coming winter. Thanks be to God that they are not at war - a ruinously expensive enterprise at the best of times, and certainly not a welcome one now.

There is little that they can do immediately, but at least they can institute some works to pay for the recovery of the shires as an interim measure. Once the full council is reunited, and Parliament recalled, a more organised effort can be undertaken; but until then they must at least make some beginnings - and be seen to do so. Anne does not need Mr Cromwell to tell her that the ordinary folk of England shall be worst affected should they do nothing, and equally the most _dis_ affected should they feel abandoned by their Queen. While the nobility are the greatest threat to the security of a reign, one ignores the peasantry at their peril. The last thing Elizabeth needs at this juncture is a rebellion akin to that which was faced by her grandfather courtesy of tin miners taxed beyond endurance.

"If there is no further reason to remain, Gentlemen," She says once discussions are at an end, "I think that we should prepare ourselves for the journey north. I wish to be reunited with my daughter, but also to see for myself how matters lie in the shires. If I know the condition of her Majesty's subjects, I shall be better prepared to consider remedies. Unless there are reasons to delay, we shall depart after this coming sabbath, and make our way to York."

* * *

The late summer air is still warm, but there are suggestions of the autumn to come as the column makes its slow, ponderous progress through countryside that seems so benign. Perhaps that quietness is accentuated all the more by the absence of people - for only a small proportion of fields are being tended as they pass by.

"So many dead?" Anne asks, quietly, as Cromwell rides alongside.

"Not all dead, I believe, Majesty," he answers, "but many are still recovering after taking sick, and thus lack the strength to return to their crops."

"How far north did the plague reach?" The last she heard, it had reached Oxford, but no further.

"Cases were reported no further north than Oxford, Majesty, while the sickness reached westwards as far as Devonshire, and eastwards as far as Felixstowe, though it was not reported any further north than that. I have not heard of any reports from Norwich."

"Then we have been rather more fortunate than it might appear at first glance, Mr Cromwell."

"Indeed so, Majesty."

"And your son is safe?"

He nods, "Gregory is well, as is his wife and son. Mr Rich has received word from his manor at Felsted; their isolation has also kept them safe from the contagion, so his family are also well; though his eldest daughter became sick at her husband's house - but recovered."

"God has been most kind to us." She agrees, "Once we have reached our lodgings for the night, I think I shall send word to George to arrange for farm workers to be sent south to aid with the harvest. I should appreciate it if you would investigate our financial state, as I suspect that those who are sent shall require to be well paid for their efforts."

He nods, "I shall see to it."

They continue in silence awhile, while behind them Rich and Lord Sandys make rather stilted conversation, as the Baron is uncomfortable to talk to the Lord Privy Seal given that he despised the man prior to their imprisonment at Fenton's manor, but was obliged to reside in safety in the Dower House while Rich faced the horror of the contagion alone.

The guards who escort them are fortunate, having been quartered in the converted buildings that had once been part of the religious house prior to Fenton's purchase of the property. Thanks to the speed at which the stricken wing of the house was shut up, not one of them fell sick and thus they march briskly to the fore and rear of the column - ensuring that any who might be hiding in proximity to the road shall not see them as a worthwhile target for robbery. Under the circumstances, they hardly look like a royal procession.

The castle at Northampton is, fortunately, a royal possession, and thus they are not imposing upon a household that might have been struck by the plague. It is not in the best condition, but it is sound, and - for those who have reached it in the face of a steady drizzle that has grown only heavier as the afternoon as progressed - to be out of the wet is the greatest priority.

The lack of people in the hall for supper is another reminder of their losses, and Anne looks upon her victuals with little appetite. Sussex is gone, as is Gage, while Petre returned to his home aboard a litter. They might not have been members of her most trusted inner circle, but they were valued men, and she mourns them rather more than she expects.

With no Court to view them, there is no interest in propriety, and Anne sits at the head of a table at which her councillors also sit, rather than at a high table, while her ladies are engaged elsewhere preparing her gowns for the morning and turning down the bed. Cromwell is to her right, picking at a portion of mutton with appetite as lacking as hers. They truly make a sombre group, and she is not surprised when Sandys excuses himself and rises from the table to return to his chambers. Rich is not long in doing likewise, leaving her alone with her Lord Treasurer.

"I should find the time to apologise to Mr Rich more properly." She says, after a while, "I was unforgivably rude to him when I heard that you had taken ill."

"So I am advised." Cromwell replies, blandly, "It was a foolish act upon your part, and I am grateful that Mr Rich refused to permit you entry."

Anne shakes her head, "Foolish or not, I could not help myself. When I received his note advising that you had fallen sick, it was my first impulse."

"To come to tend me, Majesty? That would have been madness - I am not worthy of such consideration."

"You are to me." She admits, very quietly.

"Majesty?" He seems rather bemused at such a comment.

"I have looked to you for advice and guidance as a daughter looks to a father. When my own abandoned me, I thought myself truly bereft - but I was not, for I had you at my side."

He remains silent for a considerable time, before he answers her, "Forgive me, Majesty - but I feel I must confess that I think as you do. You see me as one who is a father to you, for your own is gone. God help me, I see myself in the same light, for I have lost my daughters, and now I guide you as though you might have been a child of my own."

They lapse into silence again, until Cromwell ventures to speak, "I shall tender my resignation, of course. It is not appropriate that I continue to serve upon your Council."

"I shall not accept it." She answers, firmly, "I cannot contemplate the prospect of holding this Kingdom for my daughter without your counsel and aid. I will not. If you resign, I shall refuse to accept it. If you leave, I shall have you chased down and brought back. Do not ask me to face this task without you. I cannot do it."

They are alone in the midst of the expanse of the hall. None of the stewards are present, and even the guards are upon the other side of the doors. With none to see her, she reaches for his hand and grasps it tightly with both of her own, "Do not leave me, Thomas Cromwell. I will not let you go. If you will not stay for me, then stay for my daughter. Stay for England."

He smiles - a rather odd, skewed smile, "Was there a time when we looked upon one another as enemies, Majesty?"

"Perhaps, but it seems that God did not wish for us to remain so. I am glad of it, for I could not have won through as I have done without your counsel. It was you who helped me to win Parliament, you who won me the Council. I think it likely that I could not have hoped to have held England for Elizabeth if you had declared against me."

Cromwell shakes his head, "I would not have done so, Majesty. Elizabeth was the heir - both by law and by the King's will. For that reason alone, I would have fought for her rights; but equally, I had enemies ranged against me as did you, and thus I was willing to do what was necessary to survive. It was only in the months afterwards that I recalled that once we had looked upon one another in friendlier terms, and my motivation changed from a desire to keep my head to a determination to bring her Majesty the Queen to her just inheritance, and to do so as your friend."

"A rather paternal friend." She smiles at him.

"It seems so."

"Thank you."

"What for, Majesty?" To her surprise, Cromwell seems genuinely bemused by her gratitude.

"For everything that you have done. For being a steady rock to which I have been able to anchor myself. For being a friend when others were not. Perhaps once we did not look upon one another with trust - but now, above all, I trust you. I know that you shall never lie to me, nor shall you deceive me. Where all others might fail me, you shall not."

He reddens slightly, but then smiles at her, "If that is so, Majesty, then you are a very foolish woman. But I thank you for it."

"If I am a fool, then I am the wisest fool in Christendom."

She releases his hand, and he rises to bow to her, "I am grateful for your trust Majesty. I shall endeavour to prove myself worthy of it. Good night."

"Good night, Mr Cromwell."

* * *

The town of Leicester shows no sign of the calamity that befell towns to the south, and the burghers are bustling around a busy market in defiance of all the horrors that failed to reach them. Her banner is being carried before her, and draws attention that is remarkably friendly - but as Elizabeth came this way not a fortnight ago, her welcome is upon a wave of delight at the visit of her daughter.

They continue through the narrow streets to the site of the old Abbey, now nothing more than foundations thanks to the clamour for stone after the building was closed. One of the structures that rose from that abundance of materials is a rather fine manor house that has been set aside for her small retinue.

Margery is busy with her gowns again, while Anne sits near the window in the late afternoon sunlight to read another report from Southampton, which makes cheerful reading, as the plague is now considered to have fully abated. The ships that were ordered to sea have now docked again, and the sailors are already being recruited to assist with the harvest in the shires and parishes where the plague has left too few to bring in the crops.

England, it seems, has been more fortunate than her neighbours, where the sickness continues to ravage Paris, Calais, Brugge, Antwerp and Gent - not to mention a great number of towns in between. Perhaps she should be relieved: a nation that is too busy with its own troubles to look upon its neighbours with hungry eyes is to be welcomed in their reduced circumstances. But she cannot feel anything other than sorrow. Their journey through the afflicted countryside showed her that many households had lost their men, and were facing great hardship as a consequence. Even now, Mr Cromwell is busy with his fellow councillors, investigating funds to support the almshouses, work to extend the reach of the poor laws to aid those who have been so devastated by the sickness. Being of poor stock, it is perhaps no surprise that he is so concerned to do so.

Looking up from her papers, she is surprised to see him outside, walking slowly - almost aimlessly - amidst the ruins of the abbey. Most of the stonework has been removed to ground level, though one or two piers rise a few feet above the ground. What is he doing there? Thinking, perhaps - she has learned from experience that he spends much of his time deep in thought, and prefers to do so while walking outside, or in galleries if the weather is poor.

No - he is not moving as aimlessly as he appeared to at first glance…it is as though he is searching for something. Bemused, she rises from her chair and looks out, "Madge, set the linens aside awhile, I think I should like to take a walk outside before supper."

She has not spoken to him again of their conversation in the castle hall at Northampton. In spite of her trust in him, they were alone together for a considerable time, and it is not appropriate for a woman of her standing - even a widow - to be alone in the presence of a man to whom she is not related. Thus Margery has remained at her side at all times since that evening; Elizabeth's reputation is still tied to hers, and is equally fragile.

The shadows are lengthening as they make their way, arm in arm, into the abbey precincts, traced upon the ground in remnants of the foundations. In spite of her dislike of those now-gone moribund institutions, it grieves her to a degree that a building of such beauty is now also gone. If only the men who had lived within it had been as graceful as the church that housed them; the litany of mismanagement, extravagance and corruption that took this religious house from wealth to debt a shocking reminder of why she has become so intent upon reform.

It is not hard to see her Lord Treasurer, still making his slow way around what appears to be the northern side of the east end of the church, though it is hard to tell precisely these days now that the walls are largely gone. Frowning slightly, she quickens her pace, obliging Margery to trot slightly to keep up.

The rustling of their gowns alerts him to their approach, and he raises his head, then turns to bow, "Majesty."

"A pleasant afternoon, is it not, Mr Cromwell?"

He nods, "Indeed so, Majesty. I am somewhat stiff from a day in the saddle, and there are worse places to stretch one's legs, I think."

"Whereabouts do you think we might be within the former church, do you think?"

He looks about, "The north east ambulatory, I would suggest. From the shape of the foundations behind us, that was the north transept, so the presbytery is likely to be there." He points to his left, then pauses, as he turns back.

"Mr Cromwell?"

"I think I have found that which I was seeking." He admits, though he seems reluctant to explain further. Looking beyond him, Anne can see a simple wooden cross that must have been placed upon the site of a grave once covered by stone. Intrigued, she steps past her Lord Treasurer and bends to see if there is a script.

_Here lyeth the bones of Thos. Wulcy_

For a moment, her stomach constricts at the name of her loathed adversary; the man who destroyed her hopes of marriage with Henry Percy, and who broke up the contract with James Butler in obedience to her late husband's decision that he must have her. She has never forgiven him for his enmity towards her, or his actions against her - but she knows well that Mr Cromwell was once his man, and a loyal servant whom the Cardinal trusted absolutely.

Just as she trusts him now.

"He made me what I am, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, "He employed me, trusted me and brought me into the service of the King. Regardless of his faults - and I was not blind to them - but for his patronage, we would not be where we are now, for I would never have been a Courtier. I suspect that I would have remained a lawyer and businessman."

"And I cannot begin to know to whom I might have been married." Anne agrees, "Perhaps I might have become Lady Butler after all."

"We shall never know."

"I despised him." She admits, quietly, "I suspect that much of the acts he perpetrated against me were in the service of my late Lord, for he had decided that he must have me, regardless of any considerations to the contrary. And yet - but for him, I would not have your counsel or loyalty; and I suspect that I would be the poorer for the lack of it." Rising, she steps back a pace or two, "I think, then, it is time to set that grudge aside. Perhaps inadvertently, he has served me well."

Cromwell grunts with mild amusement, "And he would have been appalled at the discovery."

She laughs, "Then I am content. Come, we should return to the manor - I suspect it is nearly time to sup, and it would not do for our hosts to be obliged to send a search party."

* * *

"God, this pile is in a poor condition." Rich observes as they enter the gatehouse, "If this is our bastion against the Scots should they cross the border and come south, then it is of little worth. Those walls would come down if one sneezed upon them."

The past week has been a long haul of slow, plodding travel, stopping each night at the home of obliging gentlefolk courtesy of agreements made by Rochford on the Queen's journey north. As they have travelled, the countryside has changed, as here the harvest has been cut, the wheat gathered into stooks to keep the ears from the ground while the stalks await threshing.

Now that the plague has abated, they have passed teams of reapers making their way south to aid in the harvest where men have been taken by sickness, as they have been granted purses of monies to compensate for the cost of the journey. For all his foolishness, Rochford is more than capable of acting upon the requirements of the Regent without objection or argument.

Now that they have reached Pomfret, Anne is becoming all the more excited at the prospect of being reunited with her daughter. Only a few more days and they shall be at Middleham. What does it matter that the castle around her is in a poor state of repair? Or that the roof of the hall is leaking somewhat? The horrible weeks of separation are almost at an end, and she shall hold her dearest Elizabeth close once again.

Behind her, Cromwell nods, "I fear so, Richard. Perhaps we should consider works to repair this place in order to protect the south. While there is no suggestion that the Scots look upon us with bellicosity, it does not hurt to be prepared."

She smiles to herself: always thinking of the safety of the Realm. No, she has done nothing to antagonise the Scottish kingdom, in spite of their equal situation in the loss of a King with only a girl child to replace him and a mother to be her Regent. Perhaps they should forge an alliance of some sort…

Her apartments are perhaps rather shabby; hastily hung with tapestries and with small carpets scattered across the wooden floor to offer at least a modicum of comfort in the midst of disorder. Certainly, Margery is sighing with despair, "Oh, Majesty - there is damp in this chamber! Surely we should find you better quarters?"

"I suspect that these _are_ the better quarters, Madge."

Margery shudders, uttering small clucks of disapproval as she checks behind tapestries and examines the walls for moisture. Anne smiles a she does so; Hever had rooms that were in such a state - such is the way of things with buildings that were once fortresses, "It is for one night, Madge. Two at the most - what harm shall come from that? I shall be warmly wrapped in felt and fur when I sleep. Come, it is nearly time to sup: call Alice, help me to change my gown."

The view from the parapet is very fine, though as much from the distance one can see as much as the countryside. A defender could see an invading army at least two miles off or more - if only the castle itself were not so weak that such an army could take it without as much as a day's effort. It has been many years since he took up arms, but Cromwell has never forgotten the life of a soldier, and the importance of good defences against an offensive force. Even to his less than experienced eye, the castle in which they are lodging is hardly a bastion of security against any who might come to take it. Thank God no one has.

"Forgive the state of the walls, Mr Cromwell," Lord Darcy looks most embarrassed, "I have not the funds to pay for their repair. The most that I can do is shore them up as best I can. I fear that I have not been as good a custodian of this fortress as the Crown would wish."

"It is hard to preserve a fortress for the Crown when the Crown does not provide the monies to do so, my Lord." He agrees, "I am of the opinion that we have become complacent, for we have not looked to make war with the Scots, and thus they have not looked to make war with us. Equally, the North has been remarkably peaceable in the face of the reformation, though I think it likely that they have done so for her Majesty has not obliged them to abjure the old ways. Once we have recovered ourselves from the calamity of the plague, I think I shall look into funding a programme of restoration for this castle. It is not adequate as a defensive structure in its present state."

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell. Come, supper is to be served shortly - I fear it is not to the standard to which her Majesty is used, but the mutton is most fine, for the sheep feed upon moorland herbs; and it gives their meat an excellent flavour."

Cromwell smiles cheerfully, "In which case, I would be pleased to indulge."

The quality of the music is far less than that of the mutton, but the players are adequate, and thus the few ladies present are able to indulge in at least a few simple dances. Returning to her seat after a cheery galliard, Anne beckons Rich to her side, "Forgive me Mr Rich, but I have been most remiss."

"You have, Majesty?" he looks rather bemused.

"I treated you abominably in the midst of your trial, and I have not yet expressed my regrets for doing so. Your refusal to admit me to the house was wise, and I struck out at you with a most vicious outburst of temper."

"You were concerned for our health, Majesty."

"Perhaps - but it was not appropriate to hurl threats at you. I can assure you that I would not banish you from Court - for in your act, you proved to me that you are indeed a man to be trusted."

He looks a little embarrassed, but shakes his head, "I think that I am not. Mr Cromwell prevented me from attempting to escape the building - he came upon me reaching out of a window to the down-spout in hopes of clambering down so that I could flee."

Rather than laugh, or look disappointed, Anne indicates that he sit, "He said nothing of that to me."

"He would not have done - for I think he now shares your trust in me - we…had words, and he accepted that I was afraid without scorn. He did not forbid me to flee, but instead asked me to remain - so I did."

"I think we both owe him a great deal, do we not, Mr Rich?"

He nods, "And I also owe you that debt, Majesty. I have spent much of my time at Court acting in a manner that is most reprehensible, for I learned to act so from my father. He was shrewd, unscrupulous and light with the truth in his business dealings, and thus earned well. Even when wool became unprofitable, he found a way to make money - by swindling cloth traders and using the money to exchange his flocks for those better suited to the production of meat. Being a second son, I had no inheritance, so I learned most well how to profit from others."

"But now you find that honest dealings serve you better?" Anne smiles at him.

"I think I do."

"Then I am well served. Go to, Mr Rich. We shall rest here tomorrow, and move on to Middleham where we shall re-establish the council and set to work again." She pauses, then laughs softly, "Mr Cromwell told me that, in trusting him, I was a fool. If to trust him, and to trust you, makes me so, then I am glad of it, for England needs me to be a fool."

He rises, and bows, "In which case, God help England."


	43. The Heart of York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that I found most interesting while writing this story was the way that names have changed over the years. Pontefract was known - in the Tudor era - as Pomfret, while Ripon Cathedral (as it is known today) was Ripon Minster, and York Minster (as it is known today) was a cathedral.
> 
> A quick note on the weather conditions that confuse Cromwell later in this chapter: One of the regular summer phenomena of Western Europe is a plume of hot air that comes up from Africa and hits us with really high temperatures. They tend to become more prevalent in late summer and into early autumn - and one a few years ago had us sweltering in temperatures of thirty degrees celsius in mid September, which is nearly twice as hot as it should be (I was going on holiday to Belgium, and discovered I would have to completely re-pack with summer gear two days before we left). Sometimes these hit us as well, sometimes they miss us - it depends on the location of the jet stream. As they come up via Spain, we in the UK call them 'Spanish Plumes'. France and Belgium are sweating in one, but it's been shifted away from us so England is experiencing a proper autumn.

The twin towers of the minster at Ripon are a welcome sight to Anne, but not even halfway as welcome as the sight of her brother and an honour guard awaiting her small column before the great west front.

She is tired, and dusty from a long day in the saddle, while the men who have escorted her for so long are all in rather desperate need of new boots courtesy of the miles that they have marched. That shall have to be attended to, as well as one of the pack horses, who threw a shoe a few miles back and now requires the attention of a farrier.

Rochford's expression changes from pleasure to concern at the sight of them, "God have mercy - so few?"

The guards might well have not been affected by the sickness, but they are alone in having no losses. Of the councillors that remained at Fenton's manor house, only Lord Sandys, Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich remain to serve their Queen, and they all look somewhat bedraggled thanks to the loss of their servants. Hastily, he dismounts and crosses to aid his sister as she does likewise, and embraces her, "Thanks be to God that you are well, Majesty. It would have been a harsh loss to England had you been taken."

"I think it only a loss to my child, George," she smiles at him, sadly, "Even now, I am sure there are folk in England who would rejoice in my death; but tell me, is she well?"

"Most well, sister. She demanded that I take pains to assure you that she was so, and also to advise you that she is eager to see you, and that she has missed you most keenly. Amidst a thousand or more other messages that are beyond my ability to recall."

"Then let us continue." She turns back to the Captain of the guard, "Captain Palmer, we shall continue with Lord Rochford and his honour guard. Please see to it that your men are rested and fed before they continue the journey to Middleham. I shall leave monies for you to procure new boots for them, and to see that the packhorse is re-shod."

"Yes Majesty." He nods, and bows. Even as he does so, Cromwell is dismounting to fetch out sufficient funds to give him, and Anne smiles to herself. Always ready to serve.

Evening is drawing in as the column winds its way alongside the river Ure towards the bulking keep of Middleham's great royal castle. From a distance, the dusk conceals the poor state of repair of much of the structure, but the works that were undertaken to ensure Elizabeth's comfort are at lower levels, hidden within the inner ward by the great curtain walls that once protected two Richards: the Kingmaker and the Crookback.

Rochford has been largely silent upon Elizabeth's doings while on progress, partly owing to the letters he has already sent, but primarily to allow the young Queen to tell her mother personally. She has been apart from Anne for several weeks now, and, even though they have endured separation on numerous occasions since her reign began, none of them have been under such circumstances as this. He does not feel the need to speak of Elizabeth's furious tantrums, outbreaks of anger and tears that are driven entirely by worry over the health of her mother. If she wishes to confess to them, then that is her prerogative. She has inherited the fierce tempers of both of her parents, and thus he is not surprised at the occasional tempests that have broken over the heads of the ladies of her train. Madame Astley has proved to be a tower of support during those times, and he is most relieved that she has been present to calm her Royal charge.

"And how is Jane?" Anne is particularly keen to know how her sister in law is faring.

"Her sickness has abated, thanks be to God, and now, instead, she craves partridge." He smiles, "I am most grateful to be where we are, for here they are plentiful."

The great halls and accommodation blocks that were created by the Nevilles have been rather patched up with new roofing in many places, but look perfectly sound from without. Dismounting, Anne is relieved to see Caroline, the youngest of her women, emerging from the chambers set aside for her, and turns to Cromwell as he steps down from his own horse, "Thank you for your assistance in Ripon, Mr Cromwell. I shall retire awhile to spend time with her Majesty; we shall sup as soon as is convenient, and tomorrow, we shall recall the council with the Councillors who are present."

He bows, "Yes Majesty."

It is not until she has departed that he stretches, wincing slightly at the godawful cracking sounds from his stiffened joints. Jesu, he is getting too old for this.

"That sounded most uncomfortable, Mr Cromwell." Rochford grins at him.

"Do not get old, my Lord." Cromwell advises him, "It is a singularly annoying experience and I do not recommend it."

The smile falters somewhat, "We are poorer for the loss of Sussex, are we not?"

Cromwell sighs and nods as Rich joins them, "I fear so. While he did not enjoy the immediate trust of her Majesty as we do, he was of great importance to her and she valued his advice. He shall be sorely missed. I was fortunate - my sickness was not the plague - but instead some form of ague or other that felled me but briefly and was soon gone."

"Were you not affected, Mr Rich?" Rochford looks rather surprised.

Rich shakes his head, "Not at all, my Lord. Even though I was in close proximity to all who fell sick, I did not. God - for reasons I cannot fathom - chose to protect me."

"He proved a most capable nurse, my Lord." Cromwell adds, rather more cheerfully, "Even to the point of refusing to allow her Majesty the Regent entry to the wing of the house we had shut up for her protection. I am given to understand her temper was most hot at the time."

"Ah, that is a temper whose burn I, too, have felt. I am surprised she did not threaten to shorten you by a head, Mr Rich."

"As am I, my Lord." Rich admits, "Though she did threaten to banish me from Court."

"What drove her to do be so foolish?" Rochford asks, intrigued, then pauses as the two men exchange a slightly awkward glance, "Ah. I think I see. She thought you to have the plague, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell reddens, "It was most foolish of her."

"Perhaps - but I am not surprised at her behaviour. She has valued your counsel throughout her Regency, and to lose it would be a great loss to the realm as much as to her. The loss of Sussex is a sad one - but your loss would verge upon catastrophic, I think."

"God have mercy, you make me sound like a new messiah. I am not _that_ important."

"I suspect that my sister thinks otherwise. Without her father at her side, she is grateful to have you in place of him."

"Thank the Lord. I was afeared that you might think her to have softer feelings for me than that." Cromwell admits, "We have done all that we can to avoid suspicion of such nonsense. She was branded a whore, and I was thought to be willing to take all and any steps possible to advance myself ahead of all others. There is no accounting for the small-mindedness of others."

"Then we shall speak of it no more, Mr Cromwell." Rochford laughs, "I fear my mind is quite sufficiently small. Come, your apartments are prepared. Take time to refresh yourselves, or you shall still be in your travel-stained garments when we sup."

* * *

"Quickly, Madge. I must get out of this dreadful gown - it is utterly filthy and I cannot greet my daughter so attired." Anne is fidgeting with her lacings, which are rather well knotted.

"Of course, Majesty. I shall ensure that it is thoroughly brushed down before you are required to wear it again. I have your bronze taffeta or your crimson damask ready for you, and an ivory kirtle that shall serve with either." Margery hastily begins to help her unfasten her garments as Alice sets out her hair brushes and cosmetics.

"The bronze, I think. It is rather warm for damask."

Between them, Margery and Caroline make reasonably quick work of removing sleeves, opening bodices and removing voluminous amounts of fabric until Anne is down to her shift and padding, before helping her into the ivory kirtle, and securing the great overgown atop it. Once dressed again, she can take a seat while her hair is removed from its coif, brushed out and re-dressed in a fresh hood. In spite of their haste, her impatience is growing ever greater, and she fights with herself not to snap at her women for taking so long. Elizabeth might well not care in the slightest that her mother is dust-coated and besmirched with mud from a long ride in the open air - but the Court will not be at all impressed if she is not presented in a state of near-perfection.

Margery is just dabbing her favourite scent upon her neck when a knock at the door of Anne's chamber reveals Anna Conti outside, sent in search of her by the Queen.

"Forgive me, Anna; I shall be with you anon." She extends her arms so that Margery can dab scent upon her wrists, then examines her reflection, "Yes, that shall do very well. Thank you all."

The walk to her daughter's privy chamber is taken with a decorum and patience that Anne does not feel. She has been separated from Elizabeth for nearly a month in the midst of a dreadful horror that has claimed half of England in its grip, and has lost members of her Council in the conflagration. The greatest of fears was the thought of losing her child, but equally she has wanted nothing more than to be close by.

Has Elizabeth been dreaming of this moment as much as she? Dreading the thought that the plague might strike her? Her thoughts turn over and over as they have since yesterday when they were within striking distance of their destination and robbed her of a decent night's sleep. Almost unconsciously, her steps quicken, obliging Anna to trot to keep up with her, and the guards hastily step aside to admit her.

She has grown - even in that short time that she has been away. No more than a few inches, but nonetheless there is some additional height that the long skirts of her gown are failing to conceal. God above, she shall be as tall as her father at this rate…

"Mama!" Immediately, Elizabeth races towards her, heedless of decorum. After all that England has endured, what do such trifles matter?

"My dearest Elizabeth, God be thanked that you are well." Anne clasps her into an embrace, "I have missed you so."

They remain so for some time, until Elizabeth straightens and steps back, as though remembering who she is and how she must now behave, "I give thanks to the Holy Father that you have returned, Mama - though I am most grieved to know that his Grace of Sussex was claimed by the sickness, as was Sir John. Is Sir William safely returned to his home?"

"Yes, your Majesty - I have arranged for him to receive a pension for life in gratitude for his loyal service to you."

"Thank you, Mama."

"Tell me all - I wish to know all that you saw, and all whom you met, upon your travels north."

She knows at least a little, thanks to George's letters; but Elizabeth has her own mind, and her own perspective. She is, despite her age, a perceptive girl who sees all, and misses little. If nothing else, this shall serve as a lesson to her that to reign as Queen is more than to be dressed in fine jewels and crowns - but also a dark, harsh drudgery of endurance as her realm suffers, and needs her to lead it. They have been fortunate this time; but there is no certainty that the plague might not stir again in years to come, and do so more brutally. As it is, there is still much to be done to ensure that the losses of working men shall not leave them with hungry mouths to feed for want of hands to bring the harvest home.

"People were most afraid, Mama." Elizabeth begins, "We did what we could to assure them, and left monies with the infirmaries and poor houses to aid those who might need them. Uncle Rochford paid much to the physicians to ensure that they would not run away, for we found some Houses where those who should offer succour had deserted their charges."

Anne sighs, "Do not be too aggrieved with them, Majesty; it is hard to face a deadly sickness with stoicism. I was fortunate in that I had a refuge and was obliged to flee there. To have means of escape, but not take it, requires great bravery that not all possess."

"Do not be angry with me Mama - but I did not eschew the poorest of places. Kat was sure that you would be most dismayed that I did not avoid the meanest of hovels, for I thought it best that I show myself not to be afraid of the sickness - but instead continuing with my progress and meeting my subjects as I had intended."

But of course she would; it is expected of a Queen to be a maternal figure, after all. Another lesson that she is taking the time to learn well. She must lead England, but must also nurture it. "I am not angry, dearest. I have walked amongst the sick when my advisers were most keen that I should not, and earned the love of many in doing so. If we do not speak to our subjects, how can we know that which they need?"

"I have thus asked the Archbishop of York to lead us in a ceremony of thanksgiving at the great cathedral in York a week hence."

"You have? That is most wise, Majesty. It equally frees me of the requirement to do so. I am very pleased to hear it."

"I have done right, Mama?"

"Most assuredly. God has delivered us from a dreadful ordeal, and it would be wrong of us not to offer our thanks to Him for it."

She watches her daughter awhile, as she continues to speak of the houses they visited, the entertainments and the great feasts that were prepared for her. That stiff decorum remains, but it is clearly wavering, and eventually cannot stand, "I was fearful for you, Mama." Elizabeth's voice equally wavers, "I thought that you might die…"

And then there are tears.

Holding her child close, Anne soothes her gently, "Forgive me, my darling girl - I did not wish to leave you so afraid, but I knew that, if one of us was to be taken by this sickness, then it was best for England that it be me, not you. It is a mother's natural instinct to protect her child even to the expense of her own life. You are England's queen; I am not. But I am your mother, and it grieved me greatly to know that I might lose you, just as you were afraid that you might lose me."

They remain together for a long time, silent and close, as Elizabeth composes herself again. As soon as she has done so, Anne turns back to her, "Come, my dearest - it is time for us to sup. God has smiled upon us and brought us back together; let us celebrate by breaking bread with those who have also lived. We can remember those who did not upon the morrow."

* * *

While it is only a short distance, the journey from the great castle of Middleham to the collegiate church of St Mary and St Alkelda is undertaken with great pomp; Elizabeth seated in her fine litter and surrounded by her ladies and honour guard. Behind her, Anne rides with her surviving Councillors, while the rest of the guards who accompanied them north have been split into two groups marching to the fore and the rear with colourful pennons snapping in a sharp breeze that heralds the approach of autumn.

The village is remarkably small for such a large castle, but the villagers are out in force to cheer their young Queen as she makes her way to worship in their parish church. The castle has a chapel, but not only is it far too small for all within, Elizabeth is adamant that she shall worship with her subjects to give thanks for the safe delivery of her mother from the sickness, and its progress no further north than Oxford. The expressions upon the faces of her ladies at such a notion was quite the picture, and Anne smiles to herself as she follows her daughter's litter. In spite of their dismay, Elizabeth has every right to attend the church, as it is under her personal jurisdiction, its allegiance being to the Crown in defiance of the Archbishop.

George rides beside her, while Mr Cromwell and Mr Rich are immediately behind, discussing some matter or other pertaining to the restoration of stucco upon a property, and Lord Sandys listens with mild interest. Her only sadness is that Sussex, Gage and Petre are no longer present.

She has never been so far north before, and finds the countryside quite exquisite; gently rolling hills coated with sheep-nibbled grass beneath a seemingly endless sky. The people here are welcoming and friendly; despite their determined adherence to the old ways in defiance of the reformation, they have shown no resentment. That might, of course, be owing to the Act of Religious Settlement that protected their wishes; but even the closure of the nearby Jervaulx Abbey seems to have been forgiven and forgotten.

The Church is of a good size, thanks to the great families that once lived and worshipped in the village, and the lych gate is gaily decorated with wheat stalks woven into pretty spirals tied with red ribbons by the local women. There are no seats within the church, so a set of finely upholstered chairs have been delivered from the Castle for the Queen and her mother, though her councillors shall stand with the rest of the parishioners.

The Dean is a kindly man with a broad chest and wide smile. He has led prayers for the souls of those whom Elizabeth and Anne have lost, while his homily speaks of God's mercy in the face of pestilence, giving thanks for England's delivery from the plague. Behind her, Anne can almost sense the wonderment of the congregation that their Queen is worshipping amongst them, as Elizabeth has taken great care with her appearance, dressing in fine garments that are richly coloured, and accenting them with tasteful jewels that are not too ostentatious. Between them, they are two stars in a drab firmament of brown homespun, and all are delighted to bask in their reflected glory.

The completion of the service does not bring Elizabeth's duties to an end, in spite of Madame Astley's attempts to usher her back outside. Entirely unprompted, she is moving amongst the gathered congregation, speaking to people, smiling upon them and even permitting them to lay their hands upon her. She is but ten years of age, and already she presents herself to her subjects as a maternal figure upon whom they can look with love and trust.

"Even now, she knows she must play the part, Majesty." Cromwell observes quietly, as Elizabeth listens to an elderly woman who speaks to her most earnestly.

"She has the intelligence of her father and her mother, Mr Cromwell; and, consequently, an old head upon young shoulders."

"And indeed it is important that she be loved by her Subjects. Let them reserve their hatred for one such as I."

"That is a service far beyond that which we ask of you, Mr Cromwell. I ask you to be her councillor, not her scapegoat."

"Better that they despise men of my kind, Majesty. We are mere politicians - God has not chosen us."

"I would beg to differ." Anne smiles at him, "I could not have come to this point without my 'mere politicians'."

They turn as Mary approaches them, "I hope I am not being forward, Sister; but Lady Rochford and I have, as asked by her Majesty, arranged for a large array of victuals to be made available to the people of the congregation in a nearby byre. It is nearly the Harvest Moon, so it seems appropriate that they should celebrate a good harvest in spite of all that has been laid upon England."

Anne's eyebrows rise; she was not aware of her daughter's decree, "She has arranged for the parishioners to feast? That is most generous of her. Does she intend to join them?"

"I think not, Majesty." Jane advises, "It is her parting gift to them, as we are to adjourn to York in due time. They were most industrious in the works to prepare the apartments for our arrival."

"Then let them feast, Jane. We shall return to the castle, and make our preparations to depart."

* * *

The news from the Continent is not assuring. While England has been spared, other nations of Europe remain in the grip of the plague in the midst of unseasonable warmth for late September.

"I am told that much of the harvest has failed in northern France, Majesty," Cromwell reports gravely, "Matters are somewhat better further south, but the Emperor looks to take advantage of Francis's comparative weakness, and already troops are massing upon the French border. Matters are improving in Flanders, though Antwerpen is still in a grave state of misery, and the cloth hall has been closed for nearly two months."

They are residing south of the City in the Palace of Bishopthorpe, hosted by Edward Lee, who has welcomed them warmly, being a friend of Cromwell's. Tomorrow, they shall ride north again to enter the great city of York through the Micklegate, the traditional gate used by Kings.

The council, such as it is, is meeting for the first time in weeks, now that none are sick, in preparation for the works that must be undertaken to recover from the plague. Rochford's work to send men south to aid with the harvest has ensured the safety of the crop, and thus they have emerged from the horror in far better condition than might have been supposed when the sickness first emerged.

"We have been most fortunate, Gentlemen." Anne sighs, "It is thanks to God that we are in this state - for it is naught that I did, or any other did, that saved us from the worst of the plague. How it is that it came no further north than Oxford, I cannot say; but it stayed its hand - and for that I am grateful."

"My Lord of Southampton has re-engaged militias to keep the peace in London." Rich adds, "while the worst of the sickness had passed, and he felt able to discharge the men, it seems that some looked to gain advantage from others through underhand dealings and false rumours; and disorder broke out as a consequence. The Aldermen of other towns and cities have been granted monies to do likewise should similar disorder occur within their purview."

"As soon as we have returned to London, it is essential that we establish how much of the harvest has been saved, and also the numbers of dead if that can be counted. Do the existing poor laws give us the scope to aid those families that have lost their breadwinner?"

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell is reading through his papers, "The taxation upon imports has granted your exchequer sufficient funds to bear such a burden. I suspect that the harvest shall be sufficient only for England's needs in the coming year, so it shall be difficult to justify selling grain to our neighbours if our own people do not have enough to eat."

"We may be able to sell wool." Rich muses, "The if the conditions in Flanders and France are as bad as reported, then who shall have taken the time to shear their flocks, or to card and spin the fleeces? With winter coming, people shall require warm garments. We may no longer be at the forefront of the trade, but it is worth considering."

Anne nods, "Then we shall discuss the matter with the Mercers upon our return to London. I should also be pleased to consider names of men who can serve upon the Council in place of those whom we have lost."

She rises, bringing the men to their feet to bow, and returns to her privy chamber, where Jane Rochford is embroidering alongside Mary, "Where is Madge?"

"She is supervising the packing of your linens prior to our departure to York tomorrow, Majesty. Is there something you require?" Jane asks.

"No, thank you. I shall visit with the Queen awhile. It is my wish to sup in private with her this evening - please could you advise his Grace the Archbishop, Mary?"

Mary rises, curtseys and withdraws.

"Are you well, Majesty?" Jane sets aside her needle and rises from the embroidery frame, "It must have been hard for you to be so far from your daughter."

"I am grateful to be reunited with her, Jane." Anne agrees, tiredly, "But I have lost three good men, while two others deserted us in our time of need. I shall have to find new Councillors - and I know not where to begin in such an enterprise."

"Mr Cromwell shall find good men to serve you, Majesty."

"And what shall I do when he is no longer here, Jane?" Anne's voice is rising with emotion, "I almost lost him - he took sick, too. I thought it to be the plague, and my fear was so great that I risked all to go to him. God be thanked that he lived - but if he had not, then I should be bereft…he has become my guide…as though a father to me…" her head drops into her hands, and she begins to weep.

"Come now, Majesty - seat yourself…" Jane guides her to a chair, fumbling for a kerchief, "God has granted you his presence a while longer, and he shall serve you all his days, I think. He has been a great friend to you, as much as a Councillor, in spite of all that passed between you in days past."

"You must think me most strange." Anne sniffs as she mops up her tears, "He is a base-born man of considerably more years than I - believe me when I tell you that it is not a carnal affection; but, I bear a love for him that is filial, for he has taken the place of my father - guiding me, caring for me and granting me good counsel that is frank and honest. My father acted only for his own gain - but Mr Cromwell does not. Perhaps once he did, but he has not since we stood together in the face of the death of the King."

"I do not think it strange, Majesty." Jane muses, "I think that, while we lost the King, we also gained - for he was known for his temper and his capriciousness. Did he not destroy men who had served him to the uttermost when he demanded more from them than they could give - only to regret their loss long after it was too late to save them? Nay, who is to say who else might have fallen beneath that fearful rage?"

"One of them would have been me, I think." Anne murmurs, "Mr Cromwell told me when this first began that the King had charged him with investigating my conduct. As he was flirting with that Seymour slut, it could not have been more clear that he was seeking a means to remove me in favour of her."

"Perhaps his death has saved all of our lives."

"That, my dear sister, is impossible to know." Anne smiles at her, "Thank you for your understanding. I shall be with Elizabeth if any have need of me."

"Yes Majesty."

* * *

The procession makes an impressive sight as it wends its way towards the great gatehouse of York upon Micklegate. In keeping with tradition, Elizabeth is entering through the gate used by Kings, passing beneath a barbican from which once gazed down the decaying heads of the famed Henry Hotspur and Richard of York.

The route to the great cathedral church of York is lined with cheering townsfolk, delighted to see their young Queen in the face of their safety from sickness, and a good harvest. Most have retained their beliefs in the old ways, but also a superstitious belief that their Queen has brought good fortune with her. For once, Anne is grateful for their stubbornness.

Elizabeth is resplendent upon a milk-white palfrey, her overgown a rich emerald green over a gold kirtle. She is escorted by an honour guard in royal red, while her Regent and Council ride behind her. She smiles and acknowledges the cheers of the crowds, while white paper rose petals are scattered from the windows above her head.

The west towers of the cathedral rise high above the rooftops, a glistening stone edifice not yet a century old. The great west window's colours cannot be seen from afar, but the intricate tracery forms a sequence of hearts, at the centre of which is a greater heart still, a vivid symbol of devotion to the Almighty by talented masters of their craft.

There were relics in there, once; relics now removed and granted a decent burial. Other treasures have been removed, but the collections of processional crosses, chalices and patens have been left untouched. The lands have been restored to the Crown, but not the devotional items that are used in the worship of God.

"My commissioners would have taken all of the treasures therein." Cromwell admits to Rich as they ride together, "His Majesty would have demanded every last groat, as would I have done. Her Majesty was willing to allow the Diocese to keep those items that they used in the mass."

"Had that not been so, I think it likely that the citizenry would have emptied the contents of their chamber pots upon us, rather than punnets of paper petals."

Lee is waiting for them at the great west door, accompanied by a canon who holds the processional cross, "Welcome, your Majesty. Come forth into God's house to give thanks for His goodness."

"Thank you, your Grace."

The high-born of the City are already within the great nave, which stretches before the Queen towards a thickly carved pulpitum. The royal party is to be accommodated in the Quire, and thus Elizabeth leads her Court in the wake of the processional Cross through the gate, where they are permitted to seat themselves in the stalls reserved for those who donated their wealth to the church in order to be granted a seat there.

The first part of the service is to pray for the souls of the dead, not merely those who were of importance to the Realm, but also for all who were claimed by the plague, no matter how low-born. Elizabeth has met many such folk while upon the road, and she has learned well from her mother's example. No one is too poor to deserve the service of a Queen. As Christ once did, so does she.

Seated in a comfortable stall, the arms of some noble family or other behind his head, Cromwell's thoughts are upon the loss of Sussex. He had been a most capable Lord Chancellor, and shall be sorely missed; having served King Henry as well as Queen Elizabeth. While he was not a member of the Regent's closest personal circle, his loyalty was unimpeachable and his advice always sound. To Cromwell's mind, there is no one who can easily replace him - so finding such a man shall be a singular challenge.

Sorrows addressed, Lee moves on to offer thanks for the delivery of those who lived, and the safety of England's harvest. How it should be that France remains trapped within a near-summer heat, while England moves on into a cool autumn, he cannot hope to know, but perhaps that is what has quelled the plague here. There has been no news from Paris for nearly three weeks, for the traders who provided him with such tidings have either fled, or died.

The blessing given, and the Grace granted, the party emerges and leads the congregation out into air freshened by a breeze that comes from the hills to dispel the entirely sourer odours of the filthy streets.

Beyond the gates of the precinct, a crowd is gathered; poor burghers who have neither the money nor the property to be considered worthy of a Queen's presence. The city aldermen are passing them without so much as a second thought; but Elizabeth does not. Her mother's service upon Maundy Thursday has taught her not to ignore those who have nothing, and instead she pauses to address them, "Good people! I thank you for coming this day - and I am most glad that you have done so. If we are the glittering jewels of York, then you are the heart; for my Realm is the greater for your presence. God's blessings be upon you all!"

The fur-rich men in gold chains of office are staring back at her in bemusement as she nods to her ladies, who advance to give out alms. To them, it seems, these are just annoying creatures who serve only to be in the way as they travel between places of importance. To Anne, however, they are subjects - and Elizabeth has been taught to see them as such.

"If there are no alms remaining for you, dear people," Elizabeth continues, "Fear not, for I have ensured that there shall be good pottage and bread for all at the hospital of St Leonard. I give thanks to God for your safety, and for the safety of all England."

The response is no surprise, "God bless your little Majesty!" a single voice from amidst the crowd, followed by another, "Blessings upon King Harry's Bairn!"

Soon it is a clamour of cheering, and not one voice rises in dissent.

"She has won them, Mr Rich." Cromwell smiles, "She has won them all upon her own account."

"You think it likely that the North shall now be safe?" Rich asks; they all remember that the great loss of the North sat upon their hands when Mary attempted to claim the crown for herself.

"I think so. The nobility have seen a young woman who commands the love of the people. While it has to be said that they were once of little account in the preservation of a reign, that is becoming less so. In such circumstances as these, it is more politically expedient to bend the knee, and thus she has won the North."

As they depart for their accommodation, he can hear it, "Did you hear it? She called us the Heart of York! God's blessings on her!"

He smiles to himself, and urges his horse to catch up with the column.


	44. Reconstruction

Anne kneels at her prie-dieu to accept the communion bread from Reverend Rawson and closes her eyes as she eats. It has been a long, tiring journey back to Hampton Court, amidst a countryside that is drawing ever closer to winter. By a true miracle of goodness by both God and man, the harvest even in the south has been almost entirely brought in, the stooks threshed, the grain gathered into the granaries, and the stalks now in great ricks to feed flocks and herds in the dead months to come.

She has not been inside her closet for almost a year, having departed to Placentia, and then to Whitehall, before the progress, but she is grateful for the familiarity of her surroundings. Elizabeth has received her communion already, in what had once been the King's closet. Now, however it is the Queen's closet - as is hers. How strange that there should be two Queen's closets…

The communion wine is set before her, and she is startled out of her reverie. Taking a sip, she crosses herself and thinks upon England's good fortune to have escaped the scourge of the plague more quickly than her neighbours did. There is news from France that the worst is now abating in Paris, but already the loss of the harvest in the north of the land is telling, as the price of bread is rumoured to be almost more than a peasant's daily pay.

Rising, she accepts the Grace, and departs her private chapel to return to her privy chamber, "Matthew, please ask my Councillors to attend me after the midday meal."

The view from her chambers over the ornamental gardens is bright with crisp sunlight as the last days of autumn sink into memory and the first of winter edge into view. The gardeners have already pruned back the roses, and clothed the fountains in their wooden jackets as a protection against frost. The days when such a view could capture her are long gone, and she turns back to the large table that she has set aside as a working desk, and considers the list of names that Mr Cromwell has provided, a list of men who might serve her well upon her council in place of those that she has lost.

She must also make appointments again. The loss of Sussex has robbed her of a capable Lord Chancellor; but at least she has a man upon her council who shall be entirely suited to replace him. Perhaps there shall be gossip at such a promotion - the Court has ever regarded her Lord Treasurer with scorn for his base-born origins - but only a fool disregards capability in the face of scorn by others. Henry recognised capability, even if he could be induced to abandon it, and that is a lesson she has no wish to ignore.

"Would you like some mulled wine, Majesty?" Mary is behind her, having emerged from her bedchamber, "Madge has secured some gingered bread."

"Gingered bread _before_ dinner, Mary?" Anne looks up from her papers with a smile and a slightly raised eyebrow, "I think I shall eschew that, but a cup of wine shall not go amiss."

The pair turn as Matthew returns, "Majesty, the Lord Treasurer has asked for an audience."

Anne looks surprised, "Show him in, Matthew."

From his expression, the news he brings is not dread, but instead he seems a little saddened, "Forgive my intrusion, Majesty; I have been gathering reports of all that has occurred in London since our departure. While it is not the most fearful of news, I am grieved to report that his Excellency Chapuys fell victim to the plague some six weeks ago. He was slow to make arrangements to leave London, and was struck down as he was departing to a rented house in Buckinghamshire."

Anne sighs, "That is sad news indeed. Enemy he may have been to me, but nonetheless to die in such manner is a cruel fate. Do you require any act of condolence from her Majesty? I suspect that such sentiments from me shall be viewed as false."

"I have drafted a letter for her Majesty's consideration, Majesty." He advises, then pauses a moment before continuing, "It shall also be a great loss in terms of our knowledge of the doings of the Emperor. It is likely that the late Ambassador's secretary shall be recalled and replaced, so I have released him from his obligation to me and assured him that, while I cannot promise that his secret shall not emerge, it shall not do so via me."

"Secret?"

"As I said, Majesty. It shall not emerge from me."

She smiles at him again, "Then I shall not ask - but I shall wonder, most fervently."

"My lips are sealed."

She pouts, comically, then laughs, "So be it, Mr Cromwell. It is, however, pleasing that you have come to me prior to dinner, as I have news of my own. With the loss of my Lord of Sussex, a vacancy has arisen amongst her Majesty's officials. Consequently, in recognition of your service, and your loyalty to England, it is her Majesty's intention to appoint you as the new Lord High Chancellor of England."

He stares at her, his expression a bizarre mixture of pride, delight and horror, "Majesty, I am but a base-born common man - no one would accept such an appointment." In spite of his words, there is no disguising his pleasure at rising so high. Regardless of his faithful service, he is as enticed by such baubles as any other ambitious politician. He wants it - but there is a _frisson_ of fear that jealous courtiers might attempt to conspire against him out of jealousy or snobbish pique.

"It is not for others to grant consent to her Majesty's will, Mr Cromwell." She answers, "While it is certainly my wish that you receive this appointment, I did not need to advise her to make it. She has made that decision herself."

"I am truly grateful, Majesty. I shall advise her Majesty of my acceptance of the appointment when it is made to me."

Anne smiles, "She shall do so in the Presence chamber after the Council meeting. I thought it a sensible move to warn you beforehand. It is not becoming for a man appointed to an office of such dignity to hop up and down upon the spot in delight. Besides," she adds, "I wanted to see the look upon your face."

* * *

Cromwell picks at the dish before him and attempts as best he can to conceal his excitement - of all the posts he hoped to gain, he never imagined he could rise as high as this: Lord Chancellor of England… _Lord Chancellor_.

But he remains base-born - and he can recall no man of such low birth attaining such power in the Court of England. Perhaps some have; but if they did, it is unlikely that they held it for long: to be set above men of higher rank than oneself leads only to jealousy, hatred, and plotting. Even in Elizabeth's Court, he remains unsure of his safety to a degree that his delight is tinged with dread. Norfolk may be gone, but there are other nobles who are more than eager to attain a place upon Elizabeth's Council, and they shall be no more keen to accept him than the hobbled Howard would have been.

"What ails you?" Rich has noticed - which is perhaps no surprise given that they are so much in one another's company these days, "You have torn at that slice of beef until it is naught but fragments." They are both aware that Cromwell's appetite is hardly weak.

"It is of no moment, Richard. A matter that I am turning over in my head."

Rich smirks slightly, "I imagine all shall be revealed shortly. We are lacking men upon the Council, and I have no doubt that her Majesty intends to name those who shall take the vacant places."

It is hard to think otherwise - for there are a number of unfamiliar faces at tables around the hall. One of them is the son of a man sent to the block by the late King in order to evade the anger of burghers who despised his father's fiscal policies. John Dudley is a stocky, tall man with a sharp countenance and a good reputation, restored by the King after the dust had settled. Another of Wolsey's many proteges, Cromwell is not surprised to see him - a man of his talent would be invaluable upon the Council. The other faces are less familiar, but doubtless there shall be introductions in due course if they are to join him at the table.

From their seat at the trestle reserved for the higher Courtiers, Cromwell and Rich are both intrigued by the discussion between Anne and her daughter at the high table. Elizabeth is blushing most fetchingly, while her mother is clearly whispering words of support. Honours and appointments have until now been conferred by the Regent upon behalf of her Majesty. Today, however, she shall confer them herself.

That ceremony is a little way off, yet. It does not do for a Queen to have to edge her way out from behind a table and assembled guests, after all. They shall withdraw to her Presence Chamber in order for her Majesty to declare her honours from the height of her throne. Of all present, however, the reward of an honour shall be a surprise to all but one. Again, Cromwell fights with himself not to smile with sheer glee. Jesu, this is most unbecoming…

Eventually, everyone departs the hall, though the Council and senior courtiers gravitate towards the Presence Chamber, as all know that appointments are to be made. There are few amongst those attending who are not hopeful that they shall benefit from the largesse shortly to be dispensed.

"My Lords!" the voice of her steward is loud, "Her Majesty the Queen and Her Majesty the Queen Regent!"

All turn towards the entrance to the Queens' Privy Chamber, and bow as Elizabeth enters, her mother and her ladies to her rear. Taking her seat she looks nervous; she is, after all, still a child. Sitting to her right, Anne turns to her and smiles.

Shyly, Elizabeth rises and steps to the front of the dais, "My Lords, welcome. We are right glad to be returned to our Palace of Hampton Court after England's fearful danger. We have lost members of our Court - men who were valued and skilled members of our royal Council. As a consequence, we are minded today to appoint a new Council. Those who have been upon our Council since the beginning of our reign shall remain. Today, we ask Mr John Dudley and Sir Thomas Percy to step forth to accept the chains of office commensurate to members of our Privy Council."

Dudley looks pleased - but also mildly surprised, as though such an elevation was unexpected. Percy, on the other hand, seems quite convinced that such an appointment is no more than his due, and shows no such astonishment. Together, they approach the dais, bow and cross to join the other Councillors.

"We are most grieved to have lost our late friend, his Grace of Sussex. Thus I call forth Mr Thomas Cromwell."

Rich smirks again as Cromwell steps forth to approach the dais. To a degree, he is remarkably successful in his attempt to look surprised and intrigued at the reason for his summons. It could not be more obvious that he is to take the place of the late Chancellor. That said, a man of his origins has rarely risen to such heights, and he is already looking around at the faces of those who are observing, as they see the protégé take the same steps as his lost mentor. Once, he would have shared their mildly scandalised expressions - though in his case such shock would have been seasoned with a liberal dose of jealous pique. Once, yes - but no longer. Instead, he is pleased for the man that he once hated, but now considers to be a friend.

For a moment, Elizabeth turns back to Anne, who nods again with an indulgent smile. "Please kneel."

Immediately, his face changes from carefully contained excitement to genuine surprise. Clearly, this was not expected.

The sword that is handed to the Queen is not of the length that Henry would have handled, for she lacks his strength. Instead, a delicate rapier is supplied, and she rests the blade either side of Cromwell's head, "We dub thee Sir Thomas Cromwell, also Baron Cromwell of Oakham."

The room goes quiet, the snide mutterings of those witnessing a worthless nobody silenced by his elevation to a peerage. Regardless of his birth, he is now a Baron: not particularly high, admittedly, but a peerage nonetheless. He looks up to see that Anne is smiling more broadly now; she retained one surprise for him, it seems.

"We do not think it appropriate that a man of your standing should lack a noble rank, your Grace." Elizabeth continues, "For it is also our intention to appoint you to the office of Lord High Chancellor, in place of our late lord of Sussex. Arise, Sir Thomas."

Cromwell stands, then bows low, "Majesty, I am overcome - I cannot find words adequate to express my gratitude at your generosity to one such as I."

"It is well earned, your Grace."

As the newly ennobled Cromwell returns to his colleague's side, Rich wonders how it is that he is not bitter with resentment, for he remains a Knight. Behind them, across the expanse of Courtiers, there is a quiet mumbling from those who are shocked at such an elevation - yet he is not. He is pleased for his friend; but then, he is Lord Privy Seal, and…

"We call forth Sir Richard Rich."

There is no escaping that thrill of excitement in his vitals as he steps forth, and is equally invited to kneel. Knighted already, he wonders what shall be granted to him.

"We are grateful for your courage and service amidst the sickness that overtook the Council while we were upon progress, and thus we make you Baron Rich of Leighs. Equally, we ask that you accept the burden of Lord High Treasurer."

His eyes a little wide, Rich rises to his feet and bows, "Thank you, Majesty. I shall give my all in your service."

As he withdraws, he can hear muttering again. Clearly his equal elevation has caused some disgruntlement; and he cares not one jot.

"We call forth Lord Rochford."

Rochford complies, and also kneels, "In gratitude for your counsel and kindness during our late progress, we appoint you Lord Privy Seal. We can think of no more worthy man to be responsible for our personal seal."

Seated behind her daughter, Anne fights with herself not to smile again. There had been a time when her brother would never have been accepted for such a post as this; for she herself would have fought against it. But he has shown his loyalty to her daughter - and to his sister - and proved his capabilities once free of the baleful influence of their father. Now, instead of a disgruntled exile, he holds the third highest Office of State. Father would be appalled…

Now, she fights with herself not to laugh.

* * *

The rooms are largely as they were left, albeit dusty and dank following several weeks of absence. The plague did not reach Poperinghe, but other parts of Flanders were devastated, and Brugge has equally suffered. Their wealth is safe, thanks to Boleyn's hasty removal of his savings from his unfortunate banker; and, to the best of their knowledge, the sickness did not spread into the northern realms. Without the rumours from the cloth halls, they are helpless to know whether or not Queen Mary is safe and well.

Ignoring his colleague, Brandon crosses to the window of the chamber that he had selected for himself, and gazes outside. The streets had once been quite bustling, but now they are quiet thanks to the toll of the plague. As he understands it, France is in an even worse state; but there is little trade in progress yet, as most merchants have yet to summon up sufficient courage to return.

What little he knows of events in England tell him that the girl Elizabeth and her mother have both survived, though not all of the Council emerged from the darkness. He is sad that Sussex was lost, but dismayed that the dread triumvirate of Cromwell, Rich and Rochford were spared. As long as they remain upon the Council, the chances of the Concubine making an error that shall end her Regency and the reign of her child are remote at best. Worse, the peasantry adore the child; as she has proved to be both pretty and intelligent. Their only hope now is to find a means for Mary to take back her throne through the lack of any other to inherit.

He shudders at the thought. To assassinate a crowned head is a dangerous act that stands against all that he has ever believed. England has done nothing to remove the child - but then, to whom would they turn now that their true Queen presides over a son in Sweden? All that he has done, he has done for the sake of a great Queen and a true friend to whom he made a promise. Even now, he refuses to relinquish that commitment: he promised Henry that he would see the crown set upon the head of the true heir of England, and it is a promise that he will not, _will_ not, break.

Boleyn, on the other hand, is immersed in a letter that has arrived from Norfolk, who avoided the plague by shutting himself safely away from it at Arundel. As he comes to the end of it, he snorts with astonishment, "God above, Norfolk has reached the bottom of the fish barrel and scrapes upon it."

Steeling himself to conceal an almost instinctive desire to roll his eyes heavenwards, Brandon turns, "In what way?"

"It seems that Chapuys managed to bribe that vile weasel Rich to spy for him. With Chapuys dead, Norfolk intends to make use of the turncoat."

"If he is willing to aid us, then what of it?"

"I think he shall find it harder than Chapuys did; after all, Rich knows what Norfolk thinks of him. I suspect it shall cost the Duke considerably more to win that treacherous runt than the Emperor was obliged to pay."

"As I said, if he is willing to aid us, what of it?" Brandon repeats.

"Are you truly so naïve a fool as that?" Boleyn demands, "Richard Rich aids none but himself. If he is to return to our side as an ally, then he shall expect Norfolk to pay handsomely. The last time he was with us, Norfolk planned to use him and then have him executed. The wretched creature overheard him say he would do so."

"Then we can manage without him."

Boleyn shakes his head, "Chapuys was as keen to see Mary upon the throne as any - and thus he was prepared to offer information to support her cause - even if it was naught but rumour that was little better than any that came from traders newly arrived from Tilbury. It shall serve us far better to have a pair of eyes and ears at Court, and better still if they are upon the Council. No - if he can be bought, then Norfolk would be a fool not to make the purchase. Much as he is despicable, Rich is well placed."

Brandon shrugs and resumes his perusal of the street below. He lacks the deviousness to sink to such befouled political depths as those plumbed by Boleyn and other career politicians - he has never needed to fight for precedence as he was granted it directly. If they can win a spy at Court, then it would serve them most well; but he shall leave that sort of treachery to those best suited to it.

* * *

Anne reads the letter in fascination, "This young man was born in the same year as Elizabeth, and even impartial reports suggest that he is a kindly, virtuous and gentle youth. I think we are all used to being advised that the sons of royal houses across Europe are all unimpeachably perfect in all ways - but in this case, it may be true."

Cromwell nods, "The words spoken in rumours are equally complimentary, Majesty. He is the third son of that family and thus most unlikely to inherit a Kingdom. Consequently, we shall not be bound to another realm courtesy of a ruling King demanding that his sons are heirs to his kingdom first, and then England. While it would be at least mildly preferable for her Majesty to marry an Englishman, there are none of suitable rank to whom she can be matched."

On paper, at least, Filipe of Portugal appears to be an ideal prospect. Portugal is wealthy, and has forged wide ranging trade connections across the world that would serve England well if a suitable trade agreement can be reached. Equally, as the Emperor, through his Spanish ancestry, looks to claim Portugal if he can, an alliance with England as the realm grows in wealth and prominence could hardly be looked upon as a lesser side of the bargain.

"I shall mention him to Elizabeth." Anne says, "It would do no harm for them to open a correspondence with one another, for he is as old as she. Perhaps if they can forge a friendship, it shall be possible in time for them to accept marriage with more ease than some brides are permitted."

Cromwell nods again, "It is true that most high-born women are married for reasons other than those that drew you to his late Majesty. I would have hoped for my own daughters, had they lived, to have found marriages within which they could be happy - but then, when they lived, I was not of such prominence that I should have viewed them as tools to gain more for myself. I cannot safely claim that I would see them so now."

Anne smiles at him, "Do not forget that I was seen as such, Sir Thomas. Had my late Lord not demanded to have me, I think I should be married to a man in Ireland in exchange for the relinquishing of his title - and far from the Court. Equally, Mary would be Queen and our reformation would have been entirely stamped out. My recall to England was solely to use me as a tool to gain more for my father - so greatly did he desire a peerage."

He bows, "I shall return anon for the Council meeting, Majesty."

She nods, "Of course. It shall be most strange, shall it not? Old friends no longer present, and new men to meet. I am hopeful that we shall be able to continue as we did before."

"Yes Majesty." His expression is rather odd. He is still unused to being called 'Sir Thomas' by his Queen. Her smile widens in amusement as he steps back to depart.

"Madge, could you invite her Majesty to my Privy Chamber, please? There is a matter I wish to discuss with her."

"Yes, Majesty." Margery curtseys and departs. Despite being still a young girl, she is a Queen, and it does not do to issue a summons to one's Queen.

Mistress Astley is with her when she arrives, "You wished to see me, Mama?"

"I did indeed, my dearest Majesty. Please, come and be seated. I have received a letter from Portugal, from Prince Filipe, who is his Majesty's third son. He wishes to befriend you and has asked that you might write to him."

Elizabeth frowns slightly, "Do you think it likely that I shall marry him, Mama?" she is too intelligent to miss that possibility.

"Perhaps - if you like him. At this time, you are too young to be formally betrothed, much less wedded, so there is no requirement that you do so if you prefer not to. It is my greatest hope that your marriage shall be a happy one, into which you have entered willingly and joyfully."

There is, of course, no expectation that she shall _not_ marry.

"May I see the letter, Mama?"

Anne hands it to her, "As you see, my precious, I have not opened it. I know that it is from Filipe, and that he hopes that you shall reply merely because his Father has advised me so. His words to you remain private - should you wish to write to him, then you may do so. If you prefer not to, we shall gently decline, shall we not?"

"I shall reply to him Mama." Elizabeth answers, "I have never left England, and I should like to know what life is like in other realms."

She smiles, fondly: such an inquisitive, bright child, "I am pleased that you shall, dear sweetheart. You are not obliged to marry him if you do not wish to - but I hope that you and he shall find a friendship in your shared youth and experiences."

"Thank you, Mama." Elizabeth rises, bobs a curtsey, and returns to her own chambers. God have mercy, she is still naught but a child, but her regal status demands that she must play the marriage game nonetheless. Of all the youths that have been set before her, this boy seems to be the most worthwhile prospect in terms of a treaty for England - but if it shall not make Elizabeth happy, then she has no wish to consider it.

* * *

"Welcome to my Council, Gentlemen." Elizabeth smiles politely at the new faces, "I am grateful for your presence, and I hope that we shall work together well as Queen and Council. I ask for honesty, frankness and truth in all our dealings, and I give you my word that I shall accept advice given in such terms willingly and openly."

The men who stand at the table bow collectively before taking their seats. Other than the new faces, the order in which they sit has also changed, as Cromwell is now seated to the right of Anne, a place that has become that of the Lord Chancellor, while Rich sits beside him, and Rochford alongside - the holders of the highest Offices of State. Warwick has modestly claimed a seat towards the far end of the table, though Thomas Percy seems quite keen to place himself as close to the Queen as possible.

Anne regards Percy without comment. He is the younger brother of the Henry to whom she had truly given her heart, until she was obliged to hand it to another Henry. In the absence of an heir to that lost love, who never recovered from the loss and died years ago estranged from the wife to whom he had been promised and from all of his brothers, the Northumberland Earldom has been restored to the Crown in accordance with the terms of his will, and thus the younger brother has not been granted it. Perhaps he hopes to earn it through service to the Queen who might have been his niece had circumstances not shattered the hearts of two young people. Should he do so, then she is quite certain that she shall be pleased to reward him with the restoration of the peerage. Time, of course, shall tell.

Discussions centre very much upon the ongoing restoration of England in the aftermath of the plague. The saving of the harvest has proved crucial, of course, but there remains the problem of many households who have lost their breadwinner, and the need to provide employment suitable for those who remain - as many of them are women, and thus they are obliged to seek what work they can to keep a roof over the heads of their children. Already, the infirmaries and almshouses are seeking washerwomen and chambermaids, while girls are being apprenticed to seamstresses and boys to all manner of trades. Further north, there is less to do as the plague did not reach the northern shires, but in the south, Mr Cromwell's commissioners have been most engaged in works to re-establish the trades that have lost those who practised them. Had there not been such a well organised mechanism, she cannot imagine how they might have managed.

"I have asked Mr Wriothesley to examine the state of the road-building programme, Majesty." Cromwell continues, "Many of the workmen have been either lost to the plague, or have returned to their homes. I think it safe to say that much of our efforts to bring in the harvest were aided by those roads that are already built, as it was possible to move men far more quickly than might otherwise have been the case. Thus I think it wise to continue to build more, in order to facilitate trade, thereby restoring England's coffers."

Rich nods, "Your treasury is in good health, Majesty." He takes up, for now the funds are his responsibility, "The last remaining debts left by your late father shall be met rather later now than we had hoped, but I am confident that we shall meet all obligations by the end of next year. There remains sufficient monies to pay for the continuation of our plans for roads, though I fear it shall be at a slower pace than previously, as we must spend with some care for the time being."

"Paris is also recovering now, though northern France remains in danger of famine." Cromwell resumes, "We do not have sufficient grain to offer aid, I fear; not without placing your subjects at risk of hunger. It would look most poor were we to oblige Englishmen to pay more for their grain, while selling a portion of it to a foreign realm."

"If there is insufficient grain to share, then so be it." Anne agrees, "Have we received entreaties from France?"

"Not as yet, Majesty." Rochford advises, "Though I suspect that King Francis knows that we cannot do so, and thus does not demand it."

"Let it be known that our inability to provide grain is owing to a lack of it, and that we would wish to do so if we could." Anne muses, "France remains an ally for now, it would do us no harm to show it."

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell scribbles a note upon his paper with a sharpened stick of paper-wrapped charcoal.

"Is there anything else?" Elizabeth asks.

"Yes, Majesty." Rochford answers, "His Imperial Majesty has sent a letter thanking you for your condolences over the death of his late Ambassador, and advises that his replacement shall arrive after the Christmastide festival. He also sends good wishes and hopes that you shall consider the suit of his son Philip, who is to inherit his Spanish Crown." Rochford's tone has become more amused, as they do not intend to consider such a thing; particularly as Elizabeth remains far too young to be betrothed.

"We shall consider it, my Lord Rochford." Elizabeth says, blushing charmingly.

With nothing remaining to discuss, the Council rises and bows as the Queen and her mother depart. Once they are gone, Rochford turns to Cromwell, "Do you think she shall consider it, Sir Thomas?"

"I think not." Cromwell shakes his head, "To marry a foreign King has risks for England that are greater than any benefit we might earn. The children of such a marriage would be Kings of Spain first, I fear, and England second. Englishmen shall not stand for the realm to be a lesser province of Spain."

"Filipe of Portugal shall be a better prospect." Rich agrees, "He is a third son, and thus unlikely to inherit his realm; consequently, his best hope of a match would be a lesser princess of another house - and to marry a Queen unlikely when there are other princes of higher status than he. Besides, it is reported that he is a kindly youth of excellent character, intelligent and well governed. If that is so, then he shall be a fine husband for our Queen."

"Assuming that she wishes to marry him." Rochford adds.

"That shall be for her Majesty to decide." Cromwell reminds him, then turns to see Warwick nearby, "Ah, my Lord Warwick, forgive my poor manners - welcome to the Council."

Warwick bows "Thank you, your Grace; I am most pleased to have been granted such an honour."

"I fear that today's discussions were somewhat mundane - but I can assure you that it shall not always be so."

"I am pleased to offer myself to her Majesty's service as she requires it."

Cromwell bows again as Warwick departs; there is ambition there, yes, but it is tempered by good sense. That is a man who shall indeed serve well - for he seems more intent upon service than the accumulation of power. Certainly, all that he has heard about the man suggests that to be so.

Percy, however, remains nearby and seems rather reluctant to approach the Lord Chancellor, instead waiting to speak to Rochford, who has the highest noble rank of the three remaining men in the Council Chamber. Even Rich, it appears, is of too little worth to be considered, for his barony is also only recently granted. Both are knights, but it seems that the Percy name is too important for its owner to be seen consorting with a man of Gentry birth.

After a while, as Rochford has no intention of ignoring his colleagues in favour of the new arrival, Percy deigns to approach, "My Lords."

"Welcome to the Council, Sir Thomas," Cromwell advises, "I hope that we shall work well together for the benefit of her Majesty and of the realm." His ability to shrug off even the most overt of insolence is remarkable - but then, he has endured insults, tirades and even assaults from his late King in such fashion, so it is hardly as though he lacks the practice.

Percy nods, more or less politely, then also departs.

"If that is how he means to continue," Rich mutters, "future meetings shall be far harder than those that have gone before."

"Perhaps he shall come around to the reality of things." Rochford sighs, "He is not as important as he wishes to be, I fear. I was no better, once. I have learned to work with those of greater talent, if lesser state, than I. He is a lesser son of an ancient House in the north, and in the absence of a son, should have inherited the Earldom - but he did not."

"If he learns to accept his position in the Court, and wins the trust of her Majesty, then I see no reason why he should not earn it back." Cromwell muses, "Though, if he does not, then he may be a source of trouble in the future. I think I shall reserve judgement upon him as a Councillor until we have seen more of his abilities."

"Do you think he might act against us, Thomas?" Rich asks. They are alone now and thus formalities have been abandoned.

"At this point, it is impossible to say, Richard. But I should be a fool indeed if I thought otherwise."

Rochford and Rich exchange a nervous glance. They have worked hard to create a united Council to serve the Queen and the Regent. Should Percy wish to raise the spectre of factionalism again, then it could overturn all that they have done.


	45. A Sudden Death

Cromwell sits back from his papers with a pain-filled sigh, stretching his arms above his head in an attempt to ease the cramped discomfort that is rarely silent these days. There had once been a time when he would not notice the endless hours hunched over papers and parchments, nor would he feel the stiffness in his fingers after many hours of careful writing. He prefers, however, not to concentrate upon such matters: for he does not wish to acknowledge that there are more years of his life behind him than ahead.

The clerks are all engaged in quiet industry: filing, scribing, passing documents from one desk to another. Most are little more than boys, all of whom are being apprenticed in the arts of fine calligraphy in order to become scribes who shall create the fair copies of Acts from the drafts that emerge from the pens of the lawyers. He smiles to himself at that silent work, bringing to fruition his long-held dreams to make life fairer for those who have nothing. God knows he wanted to create poor laws that would reward and aid those who wanted to work, but could not; treat the sick so that they could work again and even provide small endowments to widows and orphans. Most seem interested only in punishing the very poorest of Englishfolk for failing to be wealthy - but his plan has always been to censure only those who are truly indolent, not those who are held back by sickness or a lack of opportunity. To pay for it, of course, would have demanded taxation upon the boundless wealth of the higher nobility, and that was a reform that none of such wealth were willing to countenance: thus the laws that he has managed to pass have always been less far-reaching than he had ever wanted them to be.

He rouses himself from his contemplations to continue his work, only to see Rich approaching, an expression upon his face that suggests he wishes to discuss something in confidence, "Ah, Sir Richard, I am pleased you are here, there are some matters of a delicate political nature that I wish to raise with you, if you could adjourn with me, please?"

Rich nods, relieved not to have to ask; they have become so attuned to each other's mannerisms now that there is often little need to do so. Following Cromwell to a quiet chamber, he burrows into a folio and retrieves a letter, "I received this through rather surreptitious means this morning, Thomas."

Bemused, Cromwell takes the missive and peruses it.

_My Lord of Leighs,_

_I am grieved to learn that our friend Eustace Chapuys has been called to God - a most premature demand upon us, I fear. It is my hope that we are able to put aside our differences further to your work with the late Ambassador to further the interests of our exiled Queen in the face of the continued wrongful occupation of the throne by the bastard child of a whore._

_I maintain a degree of correspondence with the former Duke of Suffolk and Earl of Wiltshire, who are established in Brugge as a minor embassy that aims to speak for her Majesty in her absence from her true Court. While it is sounded about that she is contented in motherhood and has found common ground with her husband, I cannot believe that she would have discarded that which was most close to her, and to her sainted mother. Thus we await the time when the truth shall prevail, and she shall emerge to reclaim that which was stolen from her in so cruel a fashion._

_Should His Imperial Majesty decide that the loss of Chapuys invalidates the agreement with you, I would be willing to offer a similar payment to retain your services for her Majesty Queen Mary as we lay the ground for her to step forth as England's true queen. I assure you that my methods of communication are not compromised, thus we can do so in safety - though I offer my further assurances that, should our agreement be compromised, there shall be aid to escort you to the continent should your life become endangered._

_I await your answer._

_Thos. Howard of Norfolk._

"Interesting." Cromwell comments, his eyebrows rising towards his hairline, "And he thinks you shall offer equal service to him after his cruel words about you?"

"It seems so." Rich agrees, "My former reputation remains sufficiently strong to blot out what I have become. I shall not, however, prove so easily turned this time - I would ask you to permit me to refuse in the first instance, as he stated clearly that he would send me to my death once I had outlived my usefulness to him."

"Indeed I should permit it, Richard. For you to turn your coat so easily would not ring true - Chapuys expected it, and did not show surprise at the speed of your agreement to his plan - but Norfolk has indeed demeaned and defamed you, so I suggest not only that you refuse upon those grounds, but also perhaps demand a higher payment in compensation for the injury. He shall not be surprised at such an outcome."

Rich smiles, cheerfully, "That, I shall most assuredly do."

"And if he consents, I presume that you shall also donate the additional monies to the poor." Cromwell adds, his lip twitching in amusement.

The smile slips, and Cromwell laughs.

* * *

Elizabeth smiles as she reads the paper that Madame Astley has delivered to her, delivered just a day ago by a courier from the Ribeira Palace. In answer to her request for descriptions of life in Portugal, young Filipe has sent a long document of several pages' worth of latin script filled with tales of the grand palace in which he lives, from which he can see the great ships that travel from Portugal to far-off lands, bringing back spices of great worth that have made the realm wealthy.

"Look, Mama; Filipe says that he can see the great carracks and galleons from his apartments, for the palace is set beside the sea." Elizabeth holds out the paper, whereupon Anne can see a carefully drawn sketch of a grand ship in full sail. Her daughter's skill as an artist is rather limited in comparison, as her preference is to write; but she is most impressed at the picture, "Perhaps I shall build a palace beside the sea."

Anne smiles at her, "But you can see great ships from your apartments when we are at Placentia, my dearest - for I think King John has but the one palace - whereas you have many."

"I do, do I not, Mama?" Elizabeth agrees, "Perhaps, then, I should not build another, for I have quite sufficient."

"I think so, my darling."

"He says that their ships have visited great lands that we have never seen before, and that his father has gifts from those lands which are most fine - they have plates made from clay that is so fine that they resemble egg shells, and swords that are curved and so sharp that they can slice a leaf upon water so that it is cleaved in two."

"Truly?"

"See? He has sent a drawing." Again, Elizabeth lifts a page upon which is drawn a sketch of a sword whose blade shows a most elegant curve. "He says that it has been given to him, and he would be pleased to show it to me one day."

Anne regards her daughter fondly; it seems that their introduction of the two children at an age where nothing more than friendship is demanded of them might bear fruit, for Elizabeth is enjoying their correspondence. Eager to receive a letter, and equally eager to reply to it. Perhaps, in time, they might well find that they shall be a good match as husband and wife. Much as she would like to have her daughter marry an Englishman, that is unlikely - for who would she marry? No - she must wed one of her own kind, and thus a youth of foreign descent shall be necessary. From her own experiences, Anne is well aware that her fellow English-folk are most disinclined towards any who is deemed 'foreign'. If they are to avoid losing the love of her daughter's subjects, then the prospect of a foreign marriage must be carefully handled, and the foundations laid early. In which case, she shall speak to Mr Cranmer…

"Mama - look at this picture! Is it not a most strange bird?" Elizabeth interrupts her train of thought with another drawing, this time of a tall bird with long legs and a long beak, "Filipe says that it builds great nests on top of chimneys and belfries."

"That is a stork, my precious." Anne smiles, "I remember seeing them when I lived in France. Their nests were indeed most remarkable. I recall once seeing one when we were hunting, for it was wading in a muddy leat, picking up frogs and swallowing them."

Elizabeth pulls a rather disgusted face, but is quickly absorbed in the letter again, "He says that he hopes that we shall one day meet. I should like that too, Mama. May I invite him to visit?"

"If you wish to do so, Elizabeth - though at this time, I think his father may not permit it, for he is no older than you. Perhaps we can extend the invitation that he come to us at a time when he is older."

"I should like that, Mama. I shall ask Mr Cromwell to draft a document for my consideration."

Anne smiles, and sighs inwardly. So young, and yet so old. The words are of a grown Queen, while before her sits a child. The burden of royalty ageing her even before she has become a woman. At least she has found a friendship with the young man so far away. Perhaps, if they are fortunate, that friendship might become love; and that, for a woman of such worth, is the best that one can hope for.

* * *

Thomas Howard of Norfolk has remained at Arundel for such a length of time that he feels like a caged animal: far from London, far from Government and far from power. God above, he misses the intrigues of the Court - gambling for such great stakes as power and prestige that are denied him thanks to the incompetence of a fool who now holds one of the highest offices in the land.

While he knows that his correspondence with Brandon and the vile snake Boleyn are secure, he remains uncertain over the safety of the letter that he wrote to the treacherous rodent Rich not three weeks back. The man is a turncoat - and it came as no surprise to him to find that the foul creature was more than happy to exchange the security and welfare of the realm he served for three hundred ducats a year - but he is also a known coward. The Regent's assurance that any further plotting would lead to the Tower might well have stayed his hand in dealing with the one to whom that assurance was addressed.

A discreet knock at the door alerts him to his steward, who enters holding a paper packet in his hand, "Your Grace, I have your stomach powders."

Norfolk straightens up at once; while he has no doubt that his closest servants are to be trusted, one can never be too careful in a house of this size, and the mention of medicine is their chosen method of announcing the arrival of a letter that cannot be shown to anyone but the one to whom it was sent.

The seal is nondescript - just a flat disc without a signet to avoid tempting a courier to open it on the basis of the status of the author. The writing is, however, familiar. He has not seen that script for several years - but he recalls it from court documents.

_My noble Lord Howard._

_I received your letter with much astonishment based upon your sentiments so clearly expressed as to my worth to your intended government and the Realm. Knowing that my life would be laid in your hands should I accede to your demand, and the value that you have placed upon it, I think I should be the greatest fool in Christendom to accept._

_If I am to do so, then I shall require assurances that I shall not be flung to the lions should your intrigues miscarry. Equally, I shall require a payment of far greater worth than that paid to me by his Imperial Majesty. For my own security and safety, I have secured your initial letter - and, should you attempt to expose me, I shall hand it to her Majesty the Regent, claiming that my response to that letter has been solely to protect her interests. Be assured that, as you have no trust or liking for me, I have none for you._

_There is no man but I upon the Council who shall be of equal use to you. Rochford is a fool and cannot be trusted to keep even the simplest of secrets, while the newly made Baron Cromwell is too beholden to the Concubine to consider it. I hold the trust of the Queen as they do - and no other man upon the Council shares it. Thus, if you wish to be advised of matters at Court, I suggest that you accede to my requirements._

_I shall expect your response by Twelfth Night - be it agreement or refusal. If I hear nothing, I shall assume that you intend to betray me, and shall present your letter to her Majesty._

_R Rich, Baron of Leighs and Lord High Treasurer of England_

"Damn you for a treacherous weasel, you blasted jackanapes!" in spite of his knowledge that he has earned at least half of the spite contained in the letter, Norfolk is enraged by the pert response. Only a man who holds a better hand at the table - and knows it - would dare to write in such terms to a man of his stature. Rich is, however, right. Cromwell shall never show disloyalty to the Crown - no matter who wears it - and Rochford is a weak fool. The other men of the Council lack their closeness to the Crowned Brat and her Jezebel of a mother. While Chapuys was inclined to exaggerate on occasion, he was largely honest and well informed. Now that he is dead, they shall have no tidings from Court to inform them of the Whore's actions as she misrules on behalf of her spawn - and they must have it. How can they ensure that England shall welcome her true Queen if they do not know how much damage has been done? No - damnation and curses upon that son of a she-dog - it is Rich, or no one.

Muttering foul curses under his breath, Norfolk stamps to his great writing desk and seats himself to prepare his response.

* * *

The great hall is decorated with great boughs of fragrant pine, while applewood burns in the fireplaces to sweeten an atmosphere thick with the aromas of the recently voided Christmastide feast. The conversation is rather drowsy, as everyone has eaten more than their fill, and thus the music is slow, while the dancers perform a stately pavane. No one is entirely sure that they could manage anything more lively on such full stomachs.

Elizabeth is talking to the recently arrived Ambassador from the King of Portugal, a tall man by the name of Pedro Damião, with impeccable manners and a peerless knowledge of the game of Chess. He has brought another long letter from Prince Filipe, along with a gold circlet set with gemstones from many of the remarkable lands that the ships of Portugal have visited. While it is perhaps a little soon to do so, King John has also sent a letter to Anne, suggesting that a betrothal might be in order, along with suitable agreements and new treaties relating to trade between the two realms to supplement the treaty of Windsor; set down between the two kingdoms by two Johns, the first of Portugal and the first of Lancaster. In the near-on two hundred years since, it is the one treaty that has never faltered; perhaps, she thinks with a mild smile, because Henry forgot about it.

She has not spoken of it to Mr Cromwell yet - though she shall value his counsel before giving her answer. Almost instinctively, her eyes seek him out. Yes, there he is - seated at a gaming table with her brother, Lady Rochford and Mr Rich, engaged in a game of Primero. She would like to join them, as she is quite sure their conversation shall be most interesting, but she is obliged to remain alongside her daughter and preside over the gathering. It would seem most ill mannered for her to abandon the Queen's guests in order to join a small group of courtiers to play cards. Perhaps one day when Elizabeth has assumed her rights and rules personally - but not now.

Her assumption about the conversation is correct, and Rochford smiles as he listens to Rich's recitation of the letter that he sent back to Norfolk, "I fear I cannot be offended by your description, Richard - for I am indeed a fool and any who trust me with a secret is equally so."

"I am grateful for your understanding." Rich smirks, "I cannot deny it was a great pleasure to write in such terms to him, knowing that he would expect it and advising him that, no matter how insulted he might be, he is beholden to me for the tidings he requires. I have not forgotten the insults he laid upon me." His lips twitch slightly, "That he was - I admit - largely correct in his assertions are of no interest."

"I look forward to seeing his response." Cromwell adds, arranging his cards.

"Even more so as there shall be one." Lady Rochford agrees, "It was most cruel of you to threaten him as you did, Sir Richard."

"I know." Rich smiles cheerfully, "He expects it of me, so I am happy to play the game."

"Do you think he shall refuse your offer?"

He shakes his head, "I suspect that he shall accept it, my Lady. For all his loathing of me, the need for a pair of listening ears at Court that are within reach of her Majesty shall overcome that. I imagine his letter shall be as poorly mannered as mine to him, and that he shall expect to negotiate the payment I have demanded; but he shall accept my offer."

"Indeed he shall." Cromwell agrees, frowning slightly, "For I suspect his hand is as poor as this one."

Their conversation moves on to other matters; a fortuitous turn of events as Warwick approaches them, "I hope that I am not intruding?"

"Not at all, my Lord." Rochford smiles at him, cheerfully, "I fear my ability at cards is inferior even to that of my good wife, so should you wish to take my place, I am more than content to sit alongside and enjoy the conversation."

Warwick smiles back, "I should be delighted."

"I should warn you," Cromwell adds, "While my Lord Rochford states that his ability is inferior to that of my Lady Rochford, he failed to mention that her ability is _not_ inferior to mine. I fear I have lost rather more of my stakes to her than I would care to admit."

The conversation over the cards remains neutral at first, as Warwick is new to their circle; but he is both affable, and intelligent, while his ambition is no greater than that of the men with whom he associates, "You must think me a most strange man, Sir Thomas; for I have returned to court in the face of the attainder and execution of my father upon false charges - though his properties were returned to me."

"Indeed I do not, my Lord. Your father served her Majesty's grandfather loyally, but was blamed for that which angered the people. It is, I fear, a hazard that all men in Government are obliged to face, for his late Majesty was eager to accept the joy of his subjects over matters that pleased them, but equally keen to blame his ministers for those that did not. Many good men have submitted to the axe for such royal displeasure, and there is no telling whether others might have fallen in the same fashion had he lived longer."

He chooses not to mention that the Queen Regent might well have been one of them.

The conversation moves on to lesser matters, of properties, families and children. As they do so, Cromwell can see, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas Percy making his way around the gathering. He has not had much opportunity to speak to the man, and knows only that his presence is thanks to his connections, rather than his status. Though it seems almost as though Percy considers himself to be the Earl that he is not, for he speaks to none of lesser degree. He looks back at his cards, and sighs. Damn - he should stop being so inquisitive: no wonder he is losing so badly.

"Forgive me." He sets down the cards as the hand ends, "I fear I am playing most poorly."

Warwick bows slightly, "I am most grateful for your welcome. Perhaps, my Lord Rochford, you would permit me to ask your good Lady Wife to join me upon the dance floor? I can hear the strains of a gentle pavane, which I think would not be too much in her condition."

Rochford smiles cheerfully, "If she is willing, then I would not object. Jane?"

"Thank you, your Grace. I should be most pleased."

The three men sit back with their cups as the Earl escorts Lady Rochford to join the dance, "God, to think I wished to set her aside, Gentlemen." Rochford sighs, "And yet she is a fine woman. What in God's name was I thinking?"

"We were all thinking strange thoughts at that time, I fear." Cromwell muses, "It is my hope that we have set aside the foolishness of rivalries - though I am becoming concerned that my hopes are misplaced."

"You noticed him, too?" Rich asks. He does not need to elaborate upon who he means.

"He has said not a word to me since he arrived." Rochford agrees, "I think he considers me beneath him."

Cromwell nods, "I am anathema to him, for I am base-born. I think I shall set someone to watch him, for he is polite at present, for he has not found his true place in the Council. Once he has, I suspect that shall change."

"I shall ask Jane to enquire amongst the ladies as to rumours over his behaviour." Rochford adds, "I should be astounded if he was not keen to regain the Earldom that his brother left to the Crown."

The arrival of a steward silences their speculation, "Sir Thomas, her Majesty the Regent asks that you attend her."

No sooner is he out of their small alcove than he can see why; the Milanese ambassador is a polite man, but also the dullest man in Christendom. No wonder she is looking for a reason to escape him.

"Majesty, forgive me, but I must speak with you upon matters of State." She may have summoned him, but he knows she has done so surreptitiously.

"My apologies, your Excellency." Anne smiles at her guest, who bows and withdraws courteously.

"Have I saved your Majesty from the risk of a diplomatic incident?" he asks, impishly.

"God yes. If I had been obliged to listen to the success of the cheesemakers for one more minute, I fear I should have sent him to the Tower." She answers, though she is smiling as she does so, "The poor man - he is utterly inoffensive, until he enters into a conversation for longer than five minutes."

"I have little to report, Majesty, other than the matter of Norfolk. We await the response to the letter that his Grace of Leighs has sent to him."

"I should have loved to have seen his face when he read it." Anne admits, smiling, "He must despise being beholden to a man such as Mr Rich."

"I suspect that he shall find some means to exact vengeance when he considers the time to be right, Majesty. It shall cause him greater discomfiture still to find that his supposed traitor has acted entirely with your knowledge and agreement. I think he does not appreciate that the Queen of Sweden has found contentment in her marriage and is loved by her husband - or of the fine gifts she has exchanged with her sister."

"Indeed." Anne admits, "In spite of the bad blood between us, her Majesty of Sweden has never thought anything but good of Elizabeth, and for that I am grateful - and relieved that she has found happiness with King Gustav."

"That is so." Cromwell agrees, "And - perhaps - it permits us to feel at least some degree of ease upon our consciences."

"That, also."

* * *

_My Lord of Leighs,_

_In the light of our changed circumstances, I feel it wise to make things right between us. Her Majesty, Queen Mary of England - our true and most royal Majesty - remains incarcerated within the toils of a heretical Kingdom, while her realm is carried further and further from the true faith. In order to restore her, and England, it is better that we work as one._

_Thinking upon your offer, I am in agreement that his Imperial Majesty's payment of three hundred ducats per month is indeed insufficient. Therefore, I - on behalf of her Majesty's Embassy in Exile - propose to raise the payment to five hundred pounds per quarter, in hopes that your aid shall lay the ground within the government to quickly resume the proper rule of her Realm upon her return._

_As the premier peer of England, I have no doubt that I shall be granted high office - but I shall see to it that you are equally rewarded, for you are within the Heretic's Council and thus shall appear tainted in her eyes. As soon as she is advised that you worked within the enemy camp for her good, she shall be pleased to welcome you to her Council._

_In hopes that you shall accept my terms._

_Thos. Howard of Norfolk_

"I wonder what it cost him in terms of cursing and bile to compose such a friendly letter as this." Cromwell muses, as he peruses the missive.

"I have no doubt that he shall reclaim payment by denouncing me to Mary at the first opportunity." Rich shrugs, "Should she return, and organise a council, I shall be repudiated and sent to the block with the rest of the traitors." He pauses, "Or perhaps the noose."

Cromwell pretends not to see his visible shudder, "We shall be prepared for it, Richard. Any attempt upon her behalf shall be met and repulsed. Thus none but those who have conspired with her shall see crowds from the heights of a scaffold. I should prefer it if we did not act in such fashion; it is disruptive to the realm as much as it is unpleasant. If we are obliged to do so, however, then we shall."

"The almshouse in Chelmsford that bears my name upon its rolls shall welcome the additional monies." Rich adds, slightly sulkily. No matter how much his character has improved, he remains hard put to ignore opportunities to increase his wealth, "Though I think I shall appropriate a small sum of it to pay for a new gown for Lisbet, as it seems unfair to demand that she let out her current gowns. She shall be most in need of such consideration come Lady Day."

Cromwell smiles to himself, and returns his attention to his amendments to the poor laws. His commissioners are reporting good progress as those who have long sought work but been unable to secure it have succeeded in connecting Coventry to Warwick with a well-paved road. Those who can do so have moved on to build elsewhere, but those who cannot have been organised into crews to see to its maintenance. Elsewhere, lesser ports are improving in size and facilities, to accept larger vessels, particularly upon the northern coasts, where trade with Sweden has certainly flourished thanks to their treaties with Gustav. Thanks be to God they are not at war - how many times was Henry obliged to debase England's currency to cover the losses and debts from such ludicrously expensive sorties over the sea? This year, however, it seems more than likely that, by Lady Day, they shall be able to revalue it; at least a little.

He turns to the report that one of Rich's clerks has recently delivered, and smiles in satisfaction - yes, her Majesty's treasury is in a remarkably healthy state in spite of the outbreak of plague. Should things continue as they are, then there is at least scope for England to defend herself should one of their neighbours decide that she has stood outside the great game of conflict for long enough. God above, Henry would never have stood for this - he was never happier than when he could stand proud as a warrior King, clad in armour and mail, a crowned helmet atop his head. Dying ingloriously at the head of one's army, it seems, was just something that happened to other people.

He loved Henry - and he hated him. Hell, would he even be alive today if Henry lived? It is only now, in the absence of it, that he recognises that insistent dread that, one day, Henry would discard him just as he discarded Wolsey, and More. It seemed to be an inevitable progression - rise, stand supreme, fall. Wolsey only escaped the opprobrium of the block thanks to his most sensible decision to die on the way back to London.

The Regent would not do that to him - or to anyone. For all her temper and pride, she has learned pragmatism from a lifetime of enforced compromise, and that alone shall keep his head upon his neck as long as he keeps his promise and serves her with loyalty and honesty. God knows it was easy to lose Henry's favour - and to have not the first inkling how one had managed to do so - but she is constant in a way that her late husband was not. Yet again, he smiles with a sense of almost paternal pride. Between them, they have wrested England out of the old ways, and look towards the new.

"My Lord, I have news from our Embassy in Sweden."

Startled, Cromwell looks up to see on of the older clerks, holding a folded paper. It is far too small to be one of the regular reports from the Ambassador, and he takes it, half confused, half concerned.

Heads go up all around the office chambers as he rises to his feet sharply, causing his chair to fall back against the wall behind him with a sharp clatter, "Mr Rich, with me. We must to the Regent at once."

* * *

Anne reads the short letter over and over again, as though doing so might cause the words upon it to change into less dread news.

"They are sure that the death was an accident?"

"In the absence of evidence to the contrary, Majesty," Cromwell sighs, "that is the only conclusion to which we can truly come. King Gustav fell from his horse while at the hunt, and died from his injuries. There is no evidence of assassination, only mischance. He was a most capable horseman by all accounts, but so was his late Majesty of England - and that did not save him from a similar fate."

"What of Mary?"

"That is not known at this time, Majesty." Rich adds, "We can say with at least some degree of certainty that he shall have made careful provisions for her in his will, as she was permitted to continue her devotions in private, and was protected from the more determined of reformers."

"It cannot be denied that he loved her," Rochford agrees, looking up from the chessboard at which his sister has been thoroughly trouncing him, "and by all accounts, she returned that love."

"And now his elder son rules." Anne muses, "Shall she remain?"

"While her son remains a child, I think so." Cromwell says, "Much depends upon what has been left to her by her husband. If she has lands and rights, then she is likely to remain; but in the absence of knowledge, it is impossible to do more than speculate. I suggest that our first concern be the future of the treaty, though we should also lay foundations to respond should Mary decide to depart Sweden - though again I think it unlikely that she shall demand England's crown unless she can secure aid from the Empire or from other Catholic realms. In the face of treaties, and England's stability, most would not countenance such a thing at this time. That said, I should be a fool to claim that there is no threat at all. Our greatest ally is the sea, and thus it may be worth diverting some investment into shipbuilding, thus ensuring that we have access to a navy should the need arise."

Rochford looks most interested, "Vessels that can be used for trade, but repurposed for war, Mr Cromwell?"

"A challenge, I think, but not an insurmountable one. I think that there are some excellent shipwrights - certainly in Plymouth and Portsmouth - who would be keen to consider it."

"Why would that be of concern?" Anne asks, "Surely a ship is a ship?"

Rochford shakes his head, "Not entirely, Sister - our Carracks are excellently built, certainly, but they lack the stability that serves best in war. Our good relations with Portugal shall serve us well, for it is their innovations in shipbuilding that has enabled them to travel to those lands from which her Majesty's most remarkable gifts came."

"In which case, my brother, go to. I charge you and Sir John Russell to approach Excellency Damião to discuss the sharing of such innovations, and look towards the creation of ships that shall serve us equally in peace as in war."

Rochford rises, bows and departs in search of the Lord High Admiral.

Anne turns back to Cromwell, "She shall not have England, my Lord."

"We shall do all that we can to ensure that she shall see no benefit in trying."

"It may be that she shall remain in Sweden, Majesty." Rich adds, "She is a mother, and she is the dowager Queen."

Anne sits back in her chair, a long-forgotten tension suddenly twisting in her vitals. Once, Mary had been quite intent upon claiming England - but they had known of it, and were ready for her. This time, however, they are far less well prepared. Even with a friend amongst the conspirators to report on all that she does - should Mary choose to make another attempt, there is no guarantee that she shall not succeed.


	46. The Lesser Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - the ongoing situation means I have to work from home now, and that's caused some necessary re-jigging of computers as my work machine needs the desk. I've retrieved my personal laptop from its bag, and here is the next part - and the next chapter.

PART SIX

**WARRIOR**

* * *

Chapter 46

_The Lesser Thomas_

* * *

**25 December, 1548**

Elizabeth sits upon her throne and watches the dance before her as her fingers caress the jewels upon Filipe's most recent gift to her, a magnificent brooch set with rubies from the farthest shores of the east. His accompanying letter tells her of people who speak strange languages, and who have sent bolts of quite peerless silk from the heart of Cathay, some of which has also been sent to her to be made into gowns for the summer.

Though she is not yet of age, her mother has granted a great deal of her rights and prerogatives as Queen to her, keeping only those most delicate, difficult matters that require an older head to consider. Indeed, once Twelfth night is past, she shall begin to have meetings with her closest councillors without her mother at her side, in preparation for the time to come when she shall do so as a matter of course. Mr Cromwell has become a valued chess partner, teaching her the essentials of strategy, but allowing her to make her own judgements and mistakes as they play. Once, when she was a small child, he had seemed to her to be almost a favourite uncle; now, however, he has become a valued councillor and friend, despite being vastly older than she.

Mama sits nearby, sipping at a cup of wine and sharing a smiling confidence with Aunt Jane, making a rare visit to the Court now that she has made a home for her husband and their young son, named William for his great-grandfather. Uncle George was so pleased with her for her achievement in giving him an heir, as were they all; and Elizabeth hopes that, when the time comes for her to marry Filipe, she shall be as happy as her aunt.

She shall marry him - that is a certainty, for the betrothal is now formal and agreed, along with new clauses added to their existing treaty with Portugal; though the news is yet to be announced to the Court and to England. Ever solicitous to her feelings, he has written to her separately, asking for her hand in marriage, and she has accepted. It was hardly necessary for them to make such an exchange, but he was most keen to win her heart, as keen as she was to grant it. Perhaps she is being a fool - but at this time of the season, is it not a joyous thing to be a happy fool?

A movement catches her eye, and she sees Sir Thomas Percy standing a short distance away, clearly seeking a summons to approach. As she beckons him, he bows, and indicates that a nearby youth join him, "Your Majesty. Allow me to introduce my son, also named Thomas."

Elizabeth is bemused; the youth standing before her is perhaps a little older than she, and looks most bashful; as though he is embarrassed to have been so abruptly introduced to his Queen, "Thank you Sir Thomas." She redirects her attention to the youth, "And I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Percy. Welcome to my Court."

The young man bows, a little awkwardly, "Thank you, your Majesty."

Percy nudges him slightly, causing him to turn to his father who directs a rather laden glance at him, and he reddens, "Might I be so bold as to request a dance?"

Heavens, such a breach of protocol - the son of a mere Knight has no right to ask for a dance from his Queen; it is for her to seek a dance from him. No wonder he is so embarrassed; perhaps she shall ask Baron Cromwell to remind Sir Thomas of his place, "Thank you Mr Percy. If you would forgive me, I am tired - but perhaps later?"

The pair bow and withdraw, and she is saddened to see the father turn his back upon his son, as though the failure of his enforced breach of protocol is entirely the fault of the youth.

"That was unfortunate, my dear one." Anne smiles at her, "The poor boy."

"I think I shall seek a dance from him before the evening is done, Mama." Elizabeth admits, "It seems most wrong that his father should be angry with him over something that he demanded that he do."

Anne laughs, "You are too kind, my Elizabeth."

"Perhaps I am, but I have not danced this evening Mama, and I should like to."

"Of course - you are the Queen, after all."

* * *

Warwick swallows his mouthful of cream cheese with cheerful relish, enjoying Rich's grimace of disgust, "How can you enjoy that vile stuff?"

"After all that I have consumed this night, I think it wise to do so. Besides, I find it most pleasant."

"I most assuredly do not."

Warwick laughs, "Forgive me. How is your good wife?"

"She is most well - thank you for asking." Rich looks up, "And there is a dark cloud in the firmament."

"What, Percy? Ah; I see his attempt to thrust his poor son under her Majesty's nose has fallen upon stony ground."

Rich's voice drops low, for the news is not commonly known, "His son? What is he thinking? She is betrothed to Philip of Portugal - the son of a mere knight, no matter his pedigree, is no match for that."

"Come now, my Lord - he is a proud man of a proud house. His brother willed his rights to her Majesty at his death after years of estrangement from the family that denied him his greatest wish, and this brother wants to win them back again. Moreover, if he can do so by marrying his son to a Queen, then he shall achieve more than his family ever has."

"Then he is truly a fool. Her Majesty waits upon letters from her Prince with great anticipation - and she shall never marry one of such lowly station as Percy's boy. Even if he were to win back the earldom, the lowest she could look would be to a duke." Rich snorts, "I have several sons of suitable age, but God knows I could never hope to set them before her Majesty; nor would I."

They turn as Cromwell joins them, "I see you have noticed Percy's breach of etiquette."

"Why has he been such a fool?" Warwick mutters, "If he is keen to win advancement, he could hardly have done worse."

"He is of the Percy family." Cromwell says, "They are an ancient and noble line, and he has been denied that which belongs to him in the absence of a legitimate heir. Perhaps his keenness to regain that lost prestige has shortened his patience."

Warwick shakes his head, "No, it is natural impetuosity. His brother was no different - did he not seek to love a woman in defiance of both his family and that of the lady? Moreover, he never forgave his father for ending that love and forcing the family's intended bride upon him in place of it."

"So diplomatic." Rich smiles. They all know that he means the Regent.

"I feel for the boy." Cromwell sighs, "Her Majesty's diplomacy saved him greater embarrassment. I would not be surprised if she did not seek a dance with him before the evening is done. From what little I have seen of him, he seems to be a fine young man with excellent prospects of making a good marriage. But not a marriage to her Majesty."

"Careful. He comes." Warwick mutters.

Immediately, Rich's smile widens, "And the man said, when they told him he looked like the Emperor and asked if his mother had been a maid in the palace, 'nay, but my father was often there.'"

Cromwell shakes his head, chuckling, "The day has gone on too long, if you are obliged to look to Macrobius to entertain your fellows."

"Forgive me. I have supped rather too well, and my wit is declining."

"Such wit as you have." Percy snorts, unconcerned that he is interrupting a private conversation, "Provincial men are ever dull and pedestrian."

"So I see." Rich retorts, immediately, and is rewarded with a disdain-filled scowl. Rather than allow matters to escalate, Warwick turns to the interloper, "Good evening, Sir Thomas. I trust you dined well?"

"Passing well; though it is no surprise that one so young has not yet governed her kitchens to present a decent table. Surrounded by men of little note who have displaced their betters, it is perhaps inevitable."

"Perhaps; though, given that such men of nobility have acted against their Queen, she rewards loyalty and good service. That is, after all, why you and I have been granted a place upon her Council, is it not?"

"Maturity brings wisdom." Cromwell smiles, only to be rewarded with another scowl.

"If that were so, then you would not be standing where you are." His expression one of near-disgust, Percy turns to his reddening son, "Come, Thomas. There is more appropriate company for men such as we elsewhere."

"Calm your temper, Richard." Cromwell mutters to his colleague, who has also reddened somewhat at the insults, "If he wishes to regain his late brother's honours, then his manner of doing so is remarkably foolish."

"Should her Majesty seek my recommendation that he do so, she shall not gain it. Jesu, Thomas - he is so assured of his superiority that he cares not who sees his manner towards you. You are the Lord High Chancellor, and yet he behaves as though you are naught but a gutter-dwelling peasant."

"But for my rank, Richard, I _would_ be a gutter-dwelling peasant." Cromwell smirks.

"I doubt that." Warwick laughs, "A man of your talent would have succeeded in other fields, I suspect. He has been amongst us for five years, and has become secure enough to think that he knows how far he can go with his insults."

Rich sighs, "And he knows that he can rile me, but leave Thomas unruffled. How you do not rise to him, I cannot fathom."

"I have had much practice, Richard. Do not forget that Percy's insults are of little consequence when one has been cuffed across the head by a King."

"What of the boy?" Warwick adds, "He seems to be a meek youth, and his father's behaviour unsettles him."

They turn to see that the former Lord Rochford, recently re-granted his father's confiscated Earldom, has approached Percy and his son. Unlike his fellows, Wiltshire has at least a minor degree of lustre thanks to his proximity to the Queen, and is thus treated with a degree of courtesy. Matters are clearly improved by whatever Wiltshire has said, as Percy seems almost to expand slightly, and bows as his son follows the earl back to the dais, "Ah." Cromwell observes, "Her Majesty has permitted the young man to dance with her."

"The joy of it." Rich snaps, "I have no doubt that he thinks they shall be married before the week is out."

"Allow him his fantasies, Mr Rich." Warwick chuckles, "Foolish dreams of that which shall never be are more helpful to us than factional plotting."

"With whom shall he plot? He is liked even less than I."

"Envy makes for the strangest of bedfellows, Mr Rich." Cromwell reminds him, "We are lowly men raised to great political heights. It may be that we are secure from enemies at this time, but there is no certainty that such a privilege shall always be so. Complacency is perhaps a greater enemy even than plotters."

The dance is a gentle almain, and even the older members of the Court are able to participate if they wish. To most who watch her, Elizabeth is at her most disarming, assuring the hitherto embarrassed youth that his father's boorish introduction of him has not offended her. That, however, is all that is apparent. She is betrothed to a young Portuguese prince, with whom she is most friendly, and there is no intention upon her part to suggest that she expects otherwise.

To Cromwell's experienced eye, however, such subtlety is lost upon Percy, who watches the pair with a remarkable air of satisfaction. That shall bear watching. Such small things as these are the foundations upon which rumours are built - and they have spent too long working to keep rumours at bay to see new ones spring to life.

_It is but one dance_. He tells himself, firmly, _there is nothing to fear if there are no more dances from here on._

He can trust Elizabeth to appreciate that - but Percy shall be an entirely different matter. Taking a sip of his wine, he makes a mental note to speak of it to the Regent in the morning.

* * *

Anne has not had the opportunity to host an evening with her inner circle for nearly a month, thanks to a whirl of events, meetings, visits and the passing of Christmastide, but Elizabeth is busy with her own ladies, and - like many young women who are just coming into their womanhood - the young Queen is less willing nowadays to have her activities overseen by her mother.

Excellency Damião has brought another letter from his young Prince, which he has delivered to the Queen, along with papers from King John that set down in more detail the terms of the treaty that the marriage of the pair shall seal. Like the late Chapuys, he is an entertaining, knowledgable man who makes excellent company when not politicking. Furthermore, his abilities as a chess player have ensured his presence amongst Anne's favoured friends.

Jane is at the muselar again, her final evening before returning to Beaulieu, while Mary Stafford sings a lilting French air to her accompaniment. George is attempting to find topics of conversation with Mr Rich, who is somewhat subdued thanks to the news from his home that one of his younger sons was taken by sickness shortly after the Christmastide feast.

Mr Cromwell, on the other hand, is seated at the chess table with Damião, in the midst of a silent battle that is punctuated by long, contemplative silences. While he is a fine player, Cromwell is finding that the Ambassador is considerably better, and thus each move he makes takes far longer than it might were he playing his Regent. To his credit, Damião does not look _too_ smug as he counters each challenge, and forces his opponent into a defensive position. Anne smiles to herself as their guest finally makes the dread announcement _Checkmate_.

"I fear I am utterly outclassed, Excellency." Cromwell smiles, "Your skills are far superior to mine."

"I have much practice, my Lord." Damião answers, cheerfully, "Equally, I consider, and reconsider each move. Indeed - if I see a good move, I try to find a better one."

"A statement that I think I shall appropriate, Excellency."

"It is certainly applicable to more than merely chess, my Lord." The Ambassador agrees, "It is a lesson that I hope shall be instilled in her Majesty's betrothed - to act upon raw instinct is a foolish thing where the welfare of one's realm is at stake."

"That is certainly a lesson that we have endeavoured to teach to her Majesty, and one that I am confident that she has accepted."

Damião's voice lowers slightly, "Forgive me - but what is her Majesty's attachment to the son of Sir Thomas Percy?"

Cromwell frowns, bemused by the question, "In what manner, Excellency?"

"It is noised in some quarters that he is intended to marry her."

"If that is so, then it shall come as a great to surprise to all - and equally to her Majesty. I know that she consented to dance with him at Christmastide, but only to ease his humiliation at his father's boorish attempt to demand it. I am not aware that she has seen or spoken to him at any time since."

"I thought that to be the case - but a Court is a true nest of ants, and false rumours are easily spawned. I am also of the view that the rumours have been noised overtly in my direction in hopes of my believing them."

"In which case, I shall speak to her Majesty the Regent, and we shall take steps to quell them. The Queen is a virtuous young woman, and I have no doubt that she would be most distressed to learn that her honour is being so impugned. I thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"We are allies, are we not, my Lord? It serves us well to treat one another with trust and honesty."

"Such a remarkable innovation." Cromwell smiles, "Trust and honesty. What an earth shall we do if we are not conniving and seeking to undermine one another? Surely the world shall come to an end?"

"I am inexperienced at true diplomacy, it seems. Shall we play again?"

Cromwell laughs, "Forgive me, Excellency; I am a rather prouder man than I had previously thought myself to be: I fear that I am in dread of further humiliation in the face of your skill."

"In which case, I think I shall retire." Damião rises, smiling and bowing to Anne, "Thank you for your kindly hospitality, your Majesty. I look forward to our future alliance, and the forthcoming nuptials of our Prince Filipe with her Majesty the Queen."

"As do I, your Excellency." Anne smiles, rising as he steps forth to kiss her hand, "Good night."

Her smile as he departs lasts for less than a minute as Cromwell approaches her, "There are rumours, Majesty. Rumours about her Majesty."

"What?" Immediately, her eyes harden, "Say on, Mr Cromwell."

All eyes are upon him, and he shuffles, rather uncomfortably, "I fear that it is sounded about that her Majesty is considering the hand of Thomas Percy."

"That is nonsense, my Lord!" Anne looks appalled, "Can we be sure of this?"

"I intend to find out, Majesty. I am not yet entirely assured of Excellency Damião - though I have found no reason to doubt his integrity. If that is so, then Sir Thomas must act immediately to quell such falsehoods."

Jane frowns, "But the boy seemed well governed and sensible - why would he speak so?"

"It is likely that he has said nothing." Rich murmurs, a little dolefully, "Her Majesty granted him a dance at the Christmastide feast, did she not? That she did so out of courtesy means nothing to some - Courtiers delight in scurrilous gossip: I was once amongst them in doing so."

"In which case, perhaps we should invite his father to send him home?" Wiltshire asks.

Anne shakes her head, "No: that is likely to make matters worse rather than better - unless there is a specific reason for him to depart. Does his father have intentions for him to extend his education?"

Everyone exchanges glances, "I do not know." Cromwell admits.

"You do not know, Mr Cromwell?" Anne asks, archly, "My goodness, that must be a hard position for you to occupy."

"If Sir Thomas is intent upon wedding his son to her Majesty, then he is likely keen to ensure that he is a good prospect for one such as she." Jane muses, "Perhaps it could be suggested to him that her Majesty values education in a man more than any other virtue - and thus would show no interest in a young man who has not entered one of the great Universities."

"And thus he shall prevail upon the boy to attend a suitable establishment." Wiltshire finishes, "Not only do we remove a troublesome rumour from the Court, but we also ensure that an inoffensive youth is granted a princely education rather than banished under a cloud of rumours. I have no doubt that the loss of the Percy inheritance has prevented such an enterprise."

Anne nods, and sighs; once more they are obliged to resort to subterfuge to protect her daughter's reputation from nonsensical gossip. The child is as chaste as she was when she first came to Court, but still - even after nearly fifteen years - must labour under the cruel burden of her mother's reputation. When did the game of Courtly Love become a sullied act of whorish flirtation? She had never, ever, granted her virtue to any man but her husband - but now her daughter endures rumours of immoral behaviour on the sole grounds that she is the daughter of 'the great whore'.

"I shall think upon it, Gentlemen." She says, eventually, "Thank you. Forgive me, but I am tired - I think I shall retire. My condolences upon your loss, Mr Rich."

"Thank you, Majesty."

She watches as they depart, then turns to Mary, "I fear I shall never escape that unearned opprobrium, Sister. That, I do not fear - but that they should still proclaim that my daughter is stained because she is born of my womb?"

Mary sighs, "I fear, Anne, that it is the fate of a woman to be blamed for all that befalls a marriage. If the husband strays, it is the fault of the wife for failing to please him. If the woman is propositioned, it is her fault for dressing provocatively, even though she be in the habit of a nun. If a man seeks a mistress, it is his right and none remark upon it; but if a woman _becomes_ that mistress, then she is a wanton whore. We are always to blame."

"Then I shall pray for better times, when we are not."

"As you wish, Sister." Mary follows Anne through to the bedchamber to assist her with her preparations for bed.

* * *

Boleyn sits at the table in his chambers and peruses his accounts with satisfaction. The resumption of trade after the end of the plague has proved to be highly lucrative, thanks to his being present to participate ahead of others who were yet to return from the towns to which they had fled. Brandon, of course, is utterly useless - he has never attempted to trade, and the few efforts he has made have been disastrous thanks to his being outflanked by wilier and more experienced men than he. God above, he might as well go back to lugging cargo at the port for a few _grooten_ a day. Perhaps then he shall earn them some funds rather than lose them.

At least they are closer to his goal of affording to support an Embassy. Now that Erik has been upon the Swedish throne for five years, the reasons to keep Mary there are receding. Her son is established in his own household, and she has largely retired to the estates that her husband settled upon her before his death. Perhaps she shall be willing to resume her claim to the throne that was stolen from her - and he can stand beside her; to reclaim that which his own ungrateful witch of a daughter took from him.

The door opens, and he forces himself to rearrange the scowl of scorn that is already crossing his features, "Brandon."

His voice, however, does nothing to disguise it.

"Boleyn." Brandon acknowledges, but says no more, instead crossing to the window to look out at the street below. To watch the vile, acquisitive bastard hunched over his accumulation of wealth is almost offensive. The only reason he tolerates such behaviour is the knowledge that it shall benefit the woman to whom he has pledged his loyalty, and the promise that he made to her father. Once they are returned to England, that shall most assuredly change - the scales shall fall from her Majesty's eyes, and she shall send the mercenary politician to the block for the self-serving heretic that he is.

The brittle silence is becoming increasingly awkward, as neither man wishes to speak to the other. Eventually, a knock upon the door interrupts the thick atmosphere, and their lone steward enters, "This has arrived courtesy of a Merchant from Tilbury."

Boleyn is the closer, and quickly snatches the letter from the man's hand before Brandon can turn back from the window. He gives no word of thanks, but the steward is used to such poor manners, and withdraws without comment.

Still at his post, Brandon watches as his loathed colleague reads the letter, and frowns as Boleyn's features crinkle into a vicious smile, "So he has proved to be as disloyal a wretch as we thought."

"Who has?"

"Richard Rich."

"And that is news?" Brandon snorts, "He sold his loyalty to Chapuys, and now he sells it to Norfolk."

"He is costing Norfolk two thousand pounds a year. I am not sure who is the more desperate. I should have loved to have been present when he made that offer. God above, to have lost ten thousand pounds to such a creature, and to know that such losses shall continue for as long as our work continues."

"If God is with us, you shall see the moment when he takes his vengeance."

"That shall be most enjoyable. I have ever loathed that self-serving rodent." Boleyn fails to hear the disdain in Brandon's voice.

"Is there news from Sweden?"

Boleyn shakes his head, "All remains as it was. Erik rules, John is governed by tutors and her Majesty supervises his tuition while she resides in quiet retirement. Norfolk assures us that, should that change, the traitor Rich shall alert him."

For the first time since he entered the chamber, Brandon feels a sense of satisfaction. Much as it irks him to be reliant upon a man of such noted untrustworthiness, there is no other who could grant them the knowledge that they need in this changed world - and what of the cost when the gains could be so great?

"Perhaps we should lay plans to make an approach to her."

"And alert our enemies?" Boleyn glares at him, "God's blood, you are impetuous; without a safe means of making contact, we would give ourselves away before a letter reached her."

"Then what do you suggest instead?"

"That we wait. We can continue to accumulate sufficient funds to support her Embassy, and to keep her in an appropriate state once she has departed Sweden. Until she is willing to leave, however, we are helpless. Should that occur, then we can present ourselves to her, and seek appropriate sanctuary with a sympathetic realm. Spain, for choice."

Of course: Charles. She is his cousin, and thus he shall be bound by the bonds of family and blood to accept her.

"It would be helpful, Mr Brandon, if you could see to making some contribution to our coffers." Boleyn continues, his expression unpleasantly amused. They both know that he can offer nothing but manual labour to earn funds, "After all, with the number of shore-men depleted by the plague, even a man as unskilled as you can seek a higher wage."

Brandon scowls again. Jesu, the sooner he can denounce this foul creature to his Queen and send him to a deserved execution, the better.

"I know what you're thinking." Boleyn adds, smirking, "Believe me, you can try - but do you think she shall believe you when it is I who have moved heaven and earth to win her England while you have stood by and watched? I am a dangerous opponent - unless you can win greater favour than I, you shall remain a weakling who rode upon my coat-tails to reach her side, and earned nothing but the calloused hands of a labourer."

He does not answer; there is no way to do so without sounding petty and childish. Instead, he continues to glare out of the window. Her Majesty shall see his callouses as a sign of his devotion to her cause, and love him for it. She is not superficial and shallow; and she shall see Boleyn for what he truly is.

When that day comes, he shall relish it.

* * *

"Thank you, Mr Cromwell." Elizabeth sighs, "I did not intend for such an impression to be given. How shall we deal with this matter?"

Anne shall probably be angry with him for doing so, but Cromwell knows that his Queen must be alerted to matters that could cause her difficulties. He has made promises to the daughter as much as to the mother. He continues to make his way through the frost-protected parterre beds in the Privy Garden as they glitter with a multitude of sparkling ice-diamonds, while Elizabeth, muffled in furs and flanked by her ladies, walks alongside.

"I would advise against overtly sending him away, Majesty. Instead, we shall let it be known to his father that you would not consider the approaches of a youth of lesser education than yourself. Your betrothed is well known to be highly educated, but Mr Percy has come to court without the additional years of scholarship at one of England's universities. His latin is execrable, and he has no knowledge of Greek, or even French - if he is even to serve you as a councillor, he is woefully unskilled for the task."

"And Sir Thomas shall thus send him to receive such an education." Elizabeth continues, nodding, "He does indeed seem most intent upon securing a royal future for his son."

Cromwell smiles at her diplomacy.

"I have no intention of marrying Mr Percy, my Lord. I assure you of that." She adds, "I should never act without the approval of my Council or my mother." She makes no mention of the betrothal; only the most senior of the Councillors are aware of that yet.

"Even though you are Queen?"

"I am Queen, but I am also a girl. I do not think that I am yet prepared to make such decisions upon my own account. Do you not agree?"

"I think you are a wise, and well governed young woman, Majesty. It is sensible to seek help if one requires it, and the advice of older heads, too. That said, Majesty, it is not incumbent upon you to _take_ that advice."

"Do you think I do not hear the whisperings, Mr Cromwell? I reside amongst those who whisper, and those words reach my ears. I lived in my own world when I resided at Hatfield, secure in my cosseted nest of servants and governesses - such whisperings did not reach me. I know that people speak falsehoods, suggesting that I shall ignore my betrothal to Filipe, and instead marry the son of a common Knight, when I have done naught but dance with him but the once."

He sighs; so young, and yet so old. Does she know that people think her to have light morals because they believed her mother did?

"I am old enough to marry Filipe, Mr Cromwell. Perhaps we should take steps to secure the negotiations with King John that shall bring about our marriage sooner rather than later."

"I shall speak to Excellency Damião upon the matter if that is your wish, Majesty. Perhaps your ladies might take it upon themselves to gossip that your Majesty seeks only the most highly educated men to serve in her Court, thereby sending the unfortunate Mr Percy into a world of higher education."

"It shall do him no harm, Mr Cromwell. Besides, if he is appropriately educated, then it may be that he shall become one of the foremost of my Council in future years. Does it not serve me well to lay the foundations for men who shall serve me when those who do so now are no longer present?" her tone changes, as though she dreads such an outcome.

He nods, "Indeed so, Majesty. I wish that I could live long enough to serve you for all your days; but I am a mere man. I give you my word that, if I cannot serve you all your days, I shall serve you all of mine."

"And for that, I am grateful, Mr Cromwell." Almost without thinking, she takes his arm, as though he might be a close relative of whom she is fond, "There was no one to whom I could turn as a father when I was young; and indeed my true papa died before I could truly come to know him. Perhaps I might have been bereft, but instead, God sent me a man that I could truly trust: he sent me you."

In spite of himself, Cromwell reddens, "I am honoured, Majesty. It was not my intention to be seen as a replacement for your late Father; but in the absence of daughters, I fear I wished to protect you as I could not protect them."

"And I am grateful for that protection, Mr Cromwell." She quickens her pace, "Come; we have much to do. Mr Percy must be dispatched to a university. We have the matter of his Highness of Portugal to consider in the light of our treaty." Her voice drops to avoid the ears of her ladies, "I am well aware that we must take care to ensure that I am not less than he is when we are married, so let us begin the negotiations."

Startled at her decisiveness, Cromwell follows.

* * *

The mood at the council table is rather more tense than usual, as the topic under discussion is how much power shall be granted to Prince Filipe once he has married the Queen. While the youth has shown no signs that he would resent being subject to his own wife, that is no indication that he shall be prepared to accept a lesser position once faced with the prospect.

"He cannot claim England's crown for himself." Wiltshire muses, "That shall not be acceptable to any in England, whether they be the highest of nobility or the poorest of burghers. We must take great care to ensure that your Majesty's prerogatives and rights are not removed from you."

"I assume that such strictures can be set down in law?" Elizabeth asks, saving Anne from having to do so. God, she is growing up.

"We shall take care to ensure it, Majesty." Cromwell assures her, "I have been in conference with the Attorney General and senior men of Parliament - theoretically, of course - to enact statutes that shall protect your Majesty's privileges as England's Queen in the face of her marriage to a foreign Prince." He is smiling a little, "I have also been considering a diplomatic means of explaining to King John that his son is not going to rule his wife's Kingdom."

"We shall have to find him some useful role, however." Rich adds, "If we do not, then even the most well governed and princely of men shall become irked and wonder why he permitted himself to be married in such fashion."

Warwick shakes his head, "No matter what we do, there shall be protest in England at the marriage of her Majesty to a foreign prince. Even one that has no Kingdom of his own to inherit."

Heads around the table are all nodding in agreement, and Cromwell is amongst them, "There is no easy way to present this to England, Majesty. Englishmen have ever been distrustful of foreigners, and will not take kindly to his presence, no matter how we prepare the way for him."

"That is indeed so." Elizabeth sighs, "I fear that I cannot easily marry within my own Kingdom, for there are no young men of suitable noble blood. Equally, it does not sit well with me to marry within too close a degree of affinity. I may be head of England's Church, but that does not give me the right to amend God's laws to my choosing. It may be better to agree suitable treaties with Portugal before settling the marriage; if Englishmen experience benefit in such an alliance, perhaps they shall be less distrustful of a foreign Prince."

She looks doubtful - she knows her subjects shall struggle to accept her betrothed - but what else can they do?

"Is it not worth reconsidering an English marriage?" Percy asks, "An English husband shall be acceptable to your subjects, Majesty, and there shall never be any claim upon the realm by another King should your descendants falter."

"And who would she marry?" Rich immediately asks, rather stiffly, "There are no young men in England of suitable rank." He manages not to add _have you not been listening, you dolt_?

"Can not a young man be elevated to a suitable rank?"

"Gentlemen." Anne interrupts, "We have settled this point. There are many old families of England, but none of them can provide a youth of appropriate age and rank. Our concern now is that the marriage that we _are_ intending shall be concluded to the satisfaction of both parties, and also with as little disturbance to England as possible. I appreciate your concerns, Sir Thomas; but the Lord Treasurer is correct."

"Portugal is neither France, nor the Empire." Warwick says, "It has access to trading ports that neither realm has reached. Charles may have lands across the great western ocean, but Portugal has travelled east, and found riches that can hardly even be imagined. If English traders can reach those same ports, then England's wealth and prominence shall increase in similar measure."

"For all our years of alliance, and the stipulations of the treaty of Windsor, that shall not be an easy concession to gain." Cromwell reminds them, "If we are fortunate, perhaps we shall secure a foothold in the small enclave that has been established upon the coast of India - for they are now well established; though I suspect they shall guard their ports in the islands north of Cathay more closely."

"If we cannot claim gold from the new world, then perhaps spices from the east shall serve us instead." Warwick agrees, "I am told that a cargo of black pepper shall leave a man with riches that shall serve him for the rest of his days."

"Then we shall seek trading concessions in the indies." Elizabeth agrees, "I should, however, prefer it if our treaty did not oblige us to go to war."

"It is our intention that our alliance shall be founded upon trade, Majesty." Rich advises, "In exchange for access to the spice ports of the east, we intend to offer preferential access to the tin mines of the south west of England, establishing a specific commission to oversee transactions."

"Thank you." Elizabeth looks around the table, "If there is no further business to discuss, our meeting is concluded. Gentlemen, good day." She rises, and the men rise to bow to her.

"I understand your son is to attend the university at Cambridge, Sir Thomas." Southampton says, reaching for his walking stick, "The tutors there are excellent."

"Indeed." Percy agrees, "If my son is to serve her Majesty, then to match her in intellect seems appropriate."

Cromwell is grateful that Rich has his back to the man, who does not see the amused smirk upon the Treasurer's face. Elizabeth's ruse has clearly worked. Thus the youth shall be safely dispatched away from Court. When he returns - assuming that he shall, of course - her Majesty shall be married, and he shall be free to take his place at the Council.

He turns to see one of his clerks approaching, "Your Grace, we have received a letter from our Embassy in Sweden."

Most of the councillors have now departed, and only Rich and Wiltshire remain, so he feels safe to open the missive, "God have mercy."

"What?" Immediately Wiltshire sits down alongside him, "Is it bad news?"

"King Erik has had prominent members of a noble family murdered; he was subsequently found wandering in a state of insanity, and ordered that his own tutor be slaughtered. In spite of attempts to hide the deed, rumours have emerged, and Excellency Stamford is concerned that they are true."

"But it is not proven?" Rich asks.

"Not as yet - but if it is so, then it can only be a matter of time before the nobility act to remove him. A mad King is a deadly disaster for his Realm."

"But it shall cause us no concern, Thomas." Wiltshire reminds him, "He is not the only heir - there is also John. Should he inherit, then we can continue the treaty. Do you fear that Mary might attempt to claim England for her son?"

"No, that is not my concern; Stamford also reports that, since retiring to her estates, Mary has resumed her open celebration of the Mass. Consequently, the nobles who surround her son now whisper against her, and he has already referred to her more than once as a 'Godless papist'. Should he inherit, and have no love for her, what shall she do?"

"God above, Thomas, that can be no more than vague speculation. England is well governed and stable - she has tried once to claim her Majesty's crown, and failed. I cannot see how she could succeed from foreign shores."

"Nonetheless, I think it shall be sensible to take steps to shore up our relations with France and the Emperor." Cromwell sighs, "If they regard us as too much trouble to invade, then they shall not help her."

"Perhaps - but in the absence of any evidence of such a possibility, there is little worth in fearful speculation." Rich reminds him, "It is all very well to seek to look three moves ahead in a chess game, but until the opponent has made their move, it serves no one. Even were she to be exiled, it is as likely that she shall seek a convent as the crown."

"Forgive me." Cromwell looks up at his colleague with a slightly sheepish smile, "I am inclined these days to be more pessimistic. I think it must be my age."

They depart the council chamber, discussing matters of lighter note; but nonetheless Cromwell remains convinced that the problem of Mary shall rise to haunt her sister once again.


	47. The Lesser Prince

The silence at the supper table is almost palpable as two men who loathe one another force themselves to sup in one another's company. That they have remained in close proximity for so long is a testament more to their commitment to a shared purpose than any particular patience or tolerance upon their part; but now that matters are apparently progressing in some quarters, it is just as well that they have done so.

"Does Norfolk confirm the rumours?" Brandon mutters, eventually, as Boleyn has been hogging the letter since its arrival this morning, and he has not yet seen it.

"According to that miscreant Rich, the Swedish nobility that surround and protect Erik have been obliged to admit to the scandal." Boleyn finally volunteers, "He has - it seems - emerged from his bout of insanity, and has resumed control of his nobles, but it can only be a matter of time before he is removed. Should he relapse, then that shall be inevitable. At present, he is holding on to power though ruthlessness and determination. Without that, he is lost."

"At which point, John shall be called forth to rule."

"That helps us but little. He is still relatively young, and thus his mother can step forth and claim a regency. If that is so, then she is lost to us, for why would she consider claiming the realm from which she was exiled, when she is required to continue to rule the one to which she was sent?"

"Perhaps, then, we should make overtures to him." Brandon muses, "He is, after all, the true grandson of the King of England, and thus has the right to the English Crown. It may be that we can persuade her Majesty that her son can reclaim that which she was denied."

Boleyn shakes his head, "That would require the abrogation of a carefully formulated treaty. Cromwell has ever been most capable of creating documents whose clauses are tighter than a frog's fundament. Regardless of his uncertain state of sanity, Erik has abided wholly and utterly by the treaty, and the nobility have benefited from the trading opportunities that it brought them. None of them would abide the abrogation of a treaty, even if it were at the behest of a youth with Kingly, English blood. Rich has reported that her Majesty has emerged from her period of pretended adherence to Sweden's heretical church, and now celebrates the Mass as she has always done. Consequently, her subjects regard her less favourably than once they did, and she no longer commands their love, as they are convinced that she shall take steps to destroy their beloved reformation."

"I presume, then, that the nobility are taking equal steps to ensure that her son does not emulate such pious aspirations?" Brandon asks, concerned that his Queen might have lost access to her child.

"That, Norfolk's letter does not report. For all his dubious usefulness, Rich can only provide information that he has acquired second-hand from the English embassy in Stockholm."

"And that is all?" Brandon's temper is rising slightly, as he would much prefer to read Norfolk's letter himself; but Boleyn is too spiteful to relinquish it.

"Not entirely. We may also be helped by the betrothal of the usurper to a minor Prince of Portugal. For all their loyalty to her, Englishmen are notoriously unwelcoming to foreigners, and thus her Council are hard-put to persuade them to accept him. Their only argument is that he is a third son, and thus has no kingdom to inherit."

"They accepted a whore as their regent. I have no doubt that they shall be bribed in some way to accept a foreign prince as their King."

Boleyn shrugs, as though the matters of little interest to him, "Norfolk advises us to find some means of making approaches to her Majesty, to ascertain her intentions. I suspect that such approaches shall require discussions with merchants with whom I am acquainted, so I am sure you can find something…useful…to do while I am so engaged."

Brandon's fist clenches tightly around his napkin, and he fights with himself not to scowl. To do so would give his loathed companion great satisfaction. God above, once her Majesty is Queen of England, he shall be her primary adviser, and closest minister; and so he shall relish denouncing that bastard once and for all. For all his wily political skills, Boleyn is no true nobleman, and that remains the greatest weapon when one is engaged in a political fight to the death.

A fight that he is determined to win.

* * *

Anne's eyes widen, "A walking stick, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell smiles a little ruefully as he leans on the finely polished beech cane that he can no longer put off carrying, "Alas, yes, Majesty. I fear that my love of fine victuals and good wines has brought about my punishment, for not only am I given to pains in my hip, I am also afflicted by gout. That I have managed to avoid the use of this tiresome stick for so long is more owing to stubbornness than continued good health."

She has grown used to his obligation to use eyeglasses to read documents, for they dangle from a chain about his neck in readiness for the occasions when he raises them to his eyes; and have done so for a few years. The cane, however, demands that she accept the encroaching grey hairs that have been peppering his head for longer than she has been prepared to countenance, and the jowls that are now present upon his chin. How old is he now? Certainly past his sixtieth year. God above - he is ageing, and she must begin to prepare herself for the day that she shall lose him.

He laughs, then, as though he has seen her fears upon her face, "I am not dead yet, Majesty. There is plenty of work still left in me, I assure you. I bring news from His Majesty of Portugal: the terms of our amended treaty, and her Majesty's nuptials are acceptable, and he is keen formalise the agreement. Regarding matters of a religious nature, he is prepared to be pragmatic, for, while he has accepted the inquisition in Portugal, he does not demand such activity from us. Nor does he require her Majesty to become Catholic. As we have adopted an equally pragmatic approach to religion in the Realm, we are not obliged to demand that Prince Felipe abandon his Catholic adherence: our religious settlement permits the presence of both the old and new faiths in the realm. While we certainly expect the old faith to wither away in time, there are still sufficient adherents to old traditions to accept a Catholic prince upon the throne, as long as he does not stand in the way of the Queen."

Anne nods, "Elizabeth has become most fond of her young betrothed, my Lord. If his Majesty of Portugal is amenable, I am hopeful that we might perhaps invite the youth to England to meet his bride, and to commence instruction in the government of the Realm, so that we might find him some useful purpose to occupy him instead of usurping his wife's privileges. It does not do for a man to be set to one side while his wife stands to the fore; it is too bruising to his self-regard to do so."

"Particularly so for a man who has been raised to be a prince." Cromwell adds, dryly.

"I think our minds are meeting, Mr Cromwell: care must be taken to ensure that such purpose is suitable for a man of his rank. I have learned that men are easily bruised if they consider the task they have been given to have no purpose other than to create the appearance of usefulness. Come, be seated. Let us enjoy a game of chess." She smiles, and indicates a small table nearby.

"Thank you. I should be most pleased, Majesty." Anne attempts to ignore the slowness with which he takes his seat, or the minor flinches of his features as the pain of doing so strikes at him; instead busying herself with fetching out the chessmen.

As always, her ladies surround her, and for a moment she remembers a time when the room was filled with people; courtiers eager to petition for her support, admiring men with whom she played the foolish game of Courtly Love. In spite of her female state, for a time she was so powerful that she could tip the balance that sent great men tumbling into exile or worse. She had revelled in that power, and it had manifested as a ghastly arrogance that her older, wiser self now thinks of with embarrassment. No wonder the council had regarded her with such loathing.

"I have been most fortunate." She says, as Cromwell reaches for the white pawn to make his first move, "I was a fool: an arrogant, spite-filled fool who believed herself to be a great power at Court who could topple highly placed men with impunity. It was all smoke and mirrors - for my power was based solely upon the King's desire to have me for his own. Without that, what was I?"

"As powerless as I was." Cromwell admits, "I also had enemies ranged against me, and my protection was also the favour of his Majesty. Had he not laid down the law as he did, neither you nor I would be speaking to one another at this table. His Majesty's favour was fickle, however; and I was aware that - sooner or later - he would abandon me as he abandoned Wolsey and More. I convinced myself that I would find a way to circumvent that, for I had no other master but he; but, in the end, it was the death of the King that saved me."

"And me."

They play in silence awhile, each absorbed in their own thoughts, until Anne places him in check, startling him.

"You are not concentrating, my Lord." She smiles.

He looks embarrassed, "Forgive me, Majesty. I was thinking upon how fortunate we have been; how lucky. There have been so many occasions upon which we could have lost all - and yet events fell into our favour. You were upon the verge of being set aside; nay, even destroyed entirely, and then the King died leaving you crowned and anointed. People were willing to accept a child as a Queen as she was the figurehead of a new faith. We were able to use the act of Supremacy to win over the Council, while Norfolk's attempts to claim the protectorship won us the loyalty of a wily man of talent, removed your greatest enemies and brought your brother back to your side. Mary attempted to raise England against you, but the circumstances in which she moved favoured us, and thus she failed. People rose to protect the bones of Becket, but sickness moved amongst them, and we were able to attribute the passing of the sickness to your presence."

She nods, "I see your meaning. It could have all been so different, could it not? God has been good to us both - so we should thank Him for His kindness by doing the best that we can for England, and for Elizabeth. All that I do, I do in the knowledge that Elizabeth shall pay the consequences should I act wrongly, or for my own ends. But for that, I dread to imagine what I might have done, or become."

Cromwell laughs, "I think I could have become worse, Majesty. In the years that have passed, I have also become a different man. When I was your late Lord's chief minister, I saw only one objective, and steered my course towards it with a singular determination. I sought power for myself, power and wealth. I came from nothing - while the King was surrounded by men who had never known what it was to huddle under a hedge in the rain, to sit upon the steps of a church with a hand held out in hopes of alms. I was reduced to that; reduced to begging in order to survive when Frescobaldi came across me. He brought me into his house and set my feet upon a new path, and I swore; I _swore_ , that I would never know such humiliation again. What could the great Lords of England know of such things? They lived in fine houses, dressed in velvets and silks while they ate fine victuals from silver platters. I wanted to stand above them - and I have no doubt that, in time, I would have overstepped myself and placed myself at their mercy, secure in the knowledge that they would have none for me."

"In which case, we must take care to ensure that each of us keeps the other from overstepping ourselves." Anne smiles at him, "There was a time when I would have done all in my power to remove you - but now, I pray that you shall be at my side until Elizabeth rules for herself, and we shall be rewarded with the knowledge that she shall reign well."

"I shall do my utmost, Majesty." Cromwell advises her, then looks at the chessboard, smiles rather more cheerfully and reaches for an unregarded pawn, "Checkmate."

* * *

The council have been in session now for nearly six hours, engaged in one topic of discussion: the young prince Filipe of Portugal, and how to present him to the people of England.

"He is a foreigner, Gentlemen." Cranmer sighs, "And an adherent to the old ways. Regardless of his virtues, his foreign blood remains a sticking point that shall be nigh-on impossible to overcome."

"Excellency Damião has assured us that he shall not demand that Elizabeth renounce her faith," Cromwell reminds him, "Nor has he demanded that she submit to the Pope. As we have permitted England's remaining Catholics to look to Rome only in matters of faith, so shall we ask him to do likewise. Her Majesty's Catholic subjects have responded to the settlement well, and we are less required to bring people before magistrates to answer for seditious activities than we have ever been. While it is intended that the old faith shall eventually wither away as younger English-folk enter the Church of England, at this time it remains established in various pockets across the realm, and if we are to avoid the same religious strife that has riven France and even the Empire, it is best that we show her Majesty's Catholic subjects that we are intent upon the foundations of the Settlement that permits them to retain their faith should they wish to."

Anne smiles to herself at his words. There was a time when he would have done all that he could to stamp out the old ways - but he, too, has been obliged to amend his stance in the face of the requirement to be pragmatic.

"As long as he does not bring the inquisition with him," Warwick adds, "For that would cause much anger amongst her Majesty's subjects who follow the reformed faith."

"That is already agreed, my Lords." Elizabeth reminds them, "It is not for me to look into men's hearts and demand ownership of their souls - for they belong to God. My concern is that all men look to Him for succour of their hearts and spirits. How they choose to do so, be it through the intercession of saints and good works, or through faith alone, is not for me to demand of them. God may have chosen me to rule, and to oversee His Church in England; but He has not placed His authority upon me to act entirely in His stead."

She ignores an outbreak of raised eyebrows as her councillors take in a statement that is far wiser than they might have expected from one so young, "We have set laws in place that confirms that I am Queen of England, while my husband shall be my King Consort. It is my concern at this time that we grant him privileges and prerogatives that are fitting to his state, but that shall not stand over mine as England's anointed Prince."

And there lies the greatest dilemma. As a husband, Filipe would expect to command his wife - for all men do, as is their right. How can he be the master of his household, and yet also a subject? All of Christendom would assume that, upon his marriage, he would assume the rule of England in his wife's stead; but how to prevent that?

"It should not be forgotten that you are not equals, Majesty." Rich muses, "You are an anointed Queen, while his Highness of Portugal is a prince who is unlikely to inherit a crown. In matters pertaining to the rule of England, you shall have precedence. I suggest that we create his Highness a Royal Duke in the first instance, perhaps of the old Kingdom of Wessex? The subsidiary titles can be established alongside it in due time."

"He remains a foreigner." Percy argues, stubbornly, "Men shall not be pleased to find that they are to be ruled by a man who does not share their tongue."

"That can be remedied Sir Thomas." Anne reminds him, "There are many of us at this table who speak more than one language."

"It has already begun." Elizabeth adds, "We have been corresponding in English for some considerable time."

"Mr Percy speaks fairly, Majesty." Cromwell reminds his Queen, "For all the work we do to prepare England for his arrival, we remain unable to control the hearts of Englishmen. I am a rare man in England, for I have travelled in other lands. Most have not, and thus regard all that is not English with great suspicion. At this time, I think that his Highness's visit to England should remain so. He shall be invested with a Dukedom as Lord Rich suggests, but shall remain only for a time before departing again. In that time, he should be seen to be a worthy youth for England's Queen - participating in Court events, and perhaps a short progress at your side where he can demonstrate his interest in the welfare of your Majesty's subjects. Nuptials might be better postponed until the autumn, by which time the harvest shall be over. If it is a good harvest, then it can be presented as Divine approval for the match - but, if not, none can claim it as Divine disfavour for it, for you would not yet be married."

"Such artifice, my Lord." Elizabeth sighs, "Though I should appreciate a sign of such nature to aid me in my decision; for I have prayed much upon it. I know that I must marry for the good of the Kingdom, and not in answer to the promptings of my inconstant heart; to know that God looks upon my betrothed with favour shall be a great assurance."

"Then is that your wish, Majesty?"

"It is. See to it, my Lord Cromwell."

* * *

"Thanks be to God that the weather is warming again." Rich mutters, as he holds his hands towards the fire to warm them, "I am sick to death of bloody chilblains."

"It is your own fault for eschewing mittens." Cromwell smiles, lifting his left hand, which is enclosed in a woollen, fingerless glove, "I might well look like a bent old scribe, but my hands are something akin to warm."

In the weeks since Christmastide, the cold has been cruel, and work to welcome the young Prince Filipe has been obliged to run in harness with efforts to bring succour to the poor and dispossessed in the face of a long, brutal period of freezing weather that has covered the Thames with a crown of ice so thick that horses can be ridden upon it. At one time, Cromwell's intentions for the most far-reaching reforms to aid the poor included aspirations to provide financial grants to the very poorest folk at times of crisis; but aspirations are not much use in the face of privileged wealthy folk who have no wish to relinquish so much as a groat from their coffers to help pay for them. The change of reign did much to alter that, and thus commissioners have been hard at work to send purses of monies to the almshouses and infirmaries to aid those who have no means to warm, clothe or feed themselves while England is held so firmly in winter's grip.

Rich returns to his desk, "I have completed the latest requisitions to transport firewood to the various royal possessions, Thomas. The foresters and carters shall finally have some work for which they can be paid; though how we are to aid the wherry-men and bargees, God knows."

"Until the ice breaks, they shall remain helpless, I fear." Cromwell agrees, "Mr Wriothesley has been overseeing the provision of victuals to keep them fed until such time as they can return to the waters. I fear they shall be heartily sick of broth, bread and gruel by the time that happens; though I think it not to be too much longer now."

"They shall be alive, Thomas - and that is something for which all can be grateful." Rich sets his quill down again and flexes his sore fingers rather miserably, "Hell, these are painful."

"I am told that a mix of wine, egg and fennel root is efficacious."

"So is the arrival of spring."

"If writing is too uncomfortable, Richard, perhaps you might wish to join me in considering the arrangements for his Highness's arrival. His Majesty King John has expressed the intention to confer a courtesy title of Duchess of Guarda upon her Majesty. While it shall not be accompanied by land, it shall instead include access to specific trade routes in both India and Cathay, which she is free to grant to merchantmen of her choice."

Rich's eyes widen, "That is most generous - I assume that such largesse is granted upon the solemnisation of their marriage?"

"The Indian route is not; that shall be granted upon the raising of his highness to the English nobility. The routes to Cathay shall follow."

"God above, we would be mad to let this marriage falter, Thomas. Access to the spice routes is more than we could have hoped for."

"That is my thought. We must therefore be careful to ensure that what the exchequer earns from such an enterprise can serve to reduce the tax burden upon those of lesser means, if such a thing can be managed. I have no doubt that her Majesty's subjects shall be more amenable to the marriage if there is visible benefit to them as a consequence of it."

"You think that could be a possibility?"

"At this time, it is impossible to say - but did my lord of Warwick not advise that a single cargo of black pepper is of such worth that a man can retire upon it? If England can pay for herself through commerce, then there is less burden upon her subjects to do so."

"It shall never be possible to eliminate all taxation." Rich scoffs.

"True." Cromwell agrees, "But if her Majesty's subjects are presented with a reduction in taxation, perhaps they shall be too pleased at that to notice that they are still, nonetheless, paying taxes."

The great clock of Whitehall palace tolls six, and Cromwell looks up from his papers, "I think I shall sup in my apartments this night; it is too late in the evening to return to my home. If you are not engaged elsewhere, perhaps you might like to join me?"

Papers locked away, candles extinguished, the two men make their way together through corridors that are populated with Courtiers making their way to the hall to sup, while servants light the lamps upon the walls, or busy themselves with any one of a hundred tasks that are required to keep all about them in a proper state. Their conversation is no longer political, instead concentrating upon the newest of Cromwell's hawks, recently acquired and settled in his mews at Austin Friars. While the popularity of the sport is declining, it remains a noble pursuit, and one that Cromwell has always enjoyed. Too stiff to hunt for long periods these days, and unable to indulge his enjoyment of bowls any longer, he is still able to watch them being flown in the evenings, and Rich has often spent time at the grand house where once there was a Friary, gambling over cards - and usually winning very handsomely as a result.

Supper is a well-turned haunch of mutton with fresh bread and artichokes, for which Cromwell has a great fondness, though Rich is less well disposed to such things, "How is your wife, Richard?"

He sighs, "Better than she was, I think. The loss of Edward was hard for her; she has borne me many children, for which I am grateful; though I fear that she is sad that she has given me few boys. Thus she not only grieves for him, but also mourns the loss of another son."

"Should matters ease this year, perhaps you might spend some time with her?"

"If it can be managed, I should appreciate that. She has been a good wife to me, and I should like to see to her comfort in person rather than through correspondence."

"Life is fragile." Cromwell sympathises, "I have but the one son now. I am fortunate, in that he has lived to become a man, and has presented me with grandchildren, while my siblings have granted me a brood of nephews and nieces that are a delight to an old man such as I."

Rich's eyes widen slightly, "To speak so suggests to me that you think to retire."

"God, no. I think, if I stopped working, I should collapse from the shock of it. I am not a man of idle leisure, Richard. While there is work for me to do, I intend to do it. Besides," he adds, reaching for his wine, "I suspect her Majesty shall not permit me to leave the Court, nor shall the Regent."

"Forgive me if I sound trite, Thomas; but I think the Court itself should collapse if you retired."

"Or the world end?" Cromwell asks, smiling, "I found it necessary to make myself indispensable to King Henry, for I knew that I would be discarded if I did not. Much of my career at court seems to have been an ongoing effort to ensure that I am not executed by being an essential Minister without whom the King could not manage. In doing so, however, in the move to the new reign I seem to have truly _become_ so; but it was equally necessary, for had I not worked alongside the Regent as I did, then Norfolk would have had my head removed before the King had been in his grave a month."

Rich shakes his head, "Alas, no. He had far bloodier plans for you than that. And for me. We would have travelled together upon hurdles to Tyburn would we not?"

"Ah yes, I had forgotten that."

"And now he thinks himself to be conspiring with me against the Queen. So I, too, appear to be indispensable."

"But you look forward to his expression when he discovers that you have led him by the nose?"

"Most assuredly." Rich smirks.

Their conversation moves on to other matters as they retire to the fireside with mulled ale and sweetmeats. All that remains for them to do now is wait for the spring, and thus Prince Filipe shall arrive.

* * *

Wiltshire peruses the document before him with interest, "The Turk remain bellicose, I see. At least that shall occupy the Emperor while we continue our negotiations with John of Portugal. Has he attempted to seek our aid?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "My informants upon the continent suggest not, as does our ambassador. We remain at peace with the Empire, though I suspect that his Imperial Majesty may hope that his Highness of Portugal shall encourage her Majesty to resubmit to the authority of the Pope; thereby negating the requirement upon him to force the issue. While he remains engaged with incursions into his territory by the Ottomans, he is too busy to look in our direction. In spite of my dislike of war, in this case it serves us well as it distracts the Emperor, and costs money that he thus cannot spend upon invading England."

"When is the Prince due to arrive?"

"By tomorrow, if the winds are still in his favour." Cromwell burrows through some papers, "The churches have been tasked with preaching the virtues of our visitor, though there is no talk of marriage at this time. I am, however, not fool enough to think that it is not spoken of by the populace. Rumours are likely to have been circulating for months."

"It gives them something to do." Wiltshire laughs.

They have done all that they can to smooth the way for his Highness to visit England with minimal dissent from a population that is largely born suspicious of foreigners. There had been a time when English Kings ruled lands in England and France, and foreign-born Queens have been a fact of royal life for generations. A foreign-born King, on the other hand, is a very different prospect. They might have succeeded in persuading Englishmen that a Queen can rule - but that is a simple business compared to persuading them that this marriage shall not be a sale of the realm to Portugal.

Filipe has cleared one hurdle, at least, in that he has taken the time to learn English; partly through correspondence with his wife, and partly through discourse with English merchants. Cromwell remembers the tale of the day that Katherine met Prince Arthur - the two had corresponded in Latin, their only common tongue, only to find that their pronunciation of the language had been taught so differently that they could not understand each other when they spoke it. Long before his time at court, he was not present to see it, but he is keen to ensure that such an awkward scenario is not repeated.

"I am not sure whether to be pleased, or nervous." Wiltshire admits, "All that I know of the youth tells me that he is a fine young man, and truly worthy of her Majesty; but it does naught to prevent the truth that he is not an Englishman."

"Perhaps we are too fearful, my Lord." Cromwell smiles, "It may be that he shall step forth onto the dockside and greet us in such fine English that the people shall be awed and delighted."

"I shall settle for his not being pelted with vegetables."

The morning dawns clear and bright, though cold. In the weeks since Christmastide, the weather has warmed somewhat, allowing the river to thaw to a degree that the wherrymen are able to put out again, though care must be taken to avoid large isles of ice that still make their way down towards the sea. To Rich's eye, they seem to have congregated _en masse_ in the pool of London, their wherries gaily decorated with fluttering strips of colourful fabrics, as there are no flowers at this time of the year. The route from the Tower to Whitehall has been decorated with flags, while the wine fountains have been constructed again to celebrate the arrival of the young man whose ship was spotted passing Tilbury this morning, a fact proclaimed by the lighting of beacons along the length of the river that were set to warn of his approach.

Elizabeth had been most keen to be at the dockside to greet her Princely visitor, but it is not done for a Queen to wait upon a guest in such fashion, so she waits in her Presence chamber while her highest Councillors await the arrival of his ship, and escort him to her side.

In honour of the occasion, Cromwell has eschewed his habitual black and tawny garb, though his gesture towards more celebratory attire is confined to a dark blue doublet over which is set a sable trimmed simarre, while his scholar's cap has been replaced with a smart bonnet. Beside him, Wiltshire is hard put not to stare, never having seen him dressed so, while Rich does his best to conceal a smirk at his colleague's surreptitious scrutiny.

The vessel that appears around the river bend at Wapping is a large galleon reminiscent of the sketches of grand ships in Filipe's letters. Unlike English Carracks, its forecastle is reduced, and its hull lengthened somewhat, while the rigging upon its three masts is colourful with myriad small flags that flutter in the breeze that fills the few sails still set. There is no need to have her at full sail in such confined quarters, and already the harbourmaster and pilots are approaching to aid the helmsman in bringing her to the wharf that awaits.

Behind the escort, crowds of Londoners are gathering. Some make their way through the press, intent on their own business, while the rest are held by curiosity at the platoons of red-clad royal guards, headed by men in garments that speak eloquently of their high status. Word has been announced of a grand royal visit, though the ultimate outcome of it has not been released, remaining instead a topic of speculation and interest. Consequently, those who are gathering crane to see the grand vessel as it is towed in and moored, wondering who shall emerge.

The first to step down the gangplank are a small troop of guards in the livery of King John of Portugal, who stand and form up on the dockside while members of the Prince's household follow. Behind them, at last, a youth stands at the side of the ship, looking about with wonderment. He is dressed in Royal crimson, a feathered bonnet upon a head crowned with fronds of dark hair inherited from his father.

Cromwell smiles to himself: for all the splendour and magnificence of his father's overseas possessions and trade, he has never left the boundaries of Lisbon. Thus a youth who has presented England's Queen with silks and jewels of such exotic origin is excited to see, for the first time, shores that are foreign to his own.

Filipe comes down the gangplank with a sprightly step, his expression betraying his excitement. Failing utterly to conceal a smile, Cromwell steps forth and bows deeply, " _Sua Alteza Real, seja bem vindo à Inglaterra_. I am the Lord Chancellor of England, sent by her Majesty to greet you and conduct you to her palace at Whitehall." He hopes fervently that he has pronounced the Portuguese well - Damião worked very hard to help him perfect it.

"Ah yes, Sir Thomas Cromwell is it not?" Filipe's accent is strong, but his English firm, "I am most pleased to be here. Is her Majesty well?"

"She is, Highness. She has asked me to advise that she is eager to meet you, and to grant you a gift upon her behalf." He turns, to where Sir Anthony Browne is standing alongside a magnificent chestnut gelding, and Filipe's smile widens all the more.

"I am very thankful for this gift." In spite of himself, he remembers his manners, "I cannot bring a horse with me. So I am glad to have one."

Ah, so his English is not entirely perfect. No matter; that shall be easily remedied. Cromwell steps back again as the Queen's Master of the Horse leads the gelding to the prince, "Thank you, Sir." Filipe says, "I am very grateful."

"He is yours for the entirety of your visit, your Highness." Browne advises, "Upon your return to Portugal, he shall follow."

The introductions continue as Filipe greets Wiltshire and Rich, before the party mount up. Behind them the two troops of royal guards form up together, and the party moves off.

"Was the voyage comfortable, Highness?" Cromwell asks, riding alongside. Behind him, Wiltshire and Rich are doing what they can to engage in conversation with the Prince's senior gentlemen, neither of whom are as capable in English as their master. As neither the Lords Treasurer or Privy Seal have any capability in Portuguese at all, there is little that they can easily discuss.

"At times, yes." Filipe answers, "I have seen many ships from the Palace. There were bad waves sometimes, and I fear I was not well."

"I understand well, Highness." Cromwell smiles at him, "I have endured seasickness."

"You have travelled, Sir?"

"I have indeed, Highness. I have lived in Florence, and travelled to Rome, as well as to towns in Flanders and France."

"I wish I could go to places. Until today, I have not left my home."

"I am not like most people, Highness. Most Englishmen never leave England. Merchants do, but most Englishmen are not merchants."

"Then I shall like them. Merchants talk only of themselves and money."

Cromwell smiles to himself. It seems that he is not the only one who thinks that way, "I was once a merchant, Highness - I fear I, too, talked only of myself and money."

The rest of the journey is uneventful, and they are soon dismounting in the Deal Yard, where the rest of the Council have assembled to conduct their visitor to his hostess. As they make their way to the Queen's apartments, Cromwell hopes fervently that the difference between the Filipe that Elizabeth has imagined, and the Filipe that she is about to meet, is not so great that their affection founders upon the rocks of dashed expectations. The youth seems to be all that his letters suggested, as did the diplomats; but he has not yet found his feet in this strange place, and there is no telling what might happen once he does.

The Presence chamber, despite its relatively small size, is crammed with those Courtiers who were able to claim that their rank permits them to be there. They are all absorbed in conversation, and it is only the clatter of the chief steward's staff upon the floor that commands their attention, "My Lords, Your Majesties, his Royal Highness, Prince Philip of Portugal!"

Seated upon a chair beside her daughter, Anne smiles as the announcement causes the assembled courtiers to part like waves of the red sea obeying the command of Moses. At the far end of the chamber, a young man of fair countenance and royal bearing stands, and she is pleased that he is a handsome young man. To her left, Elizabeth straightens, and rises from her throne as he approaches. For all their correspondence, she has never seen him. Thanks be to God that he is as fair to look upon as the words of his letters.

"Your Highness," Elizabeth's voice is firm, though her stance proclaims to her mother that she is suddenly shy of the young man before her, "Welcome to my Court. I trust your journey was comfortable?"

Filipe bows deeply, "I thank your Majesty for your kindness. I am most pleased to be here."

God, such stilted words - but what else can they say to one another in such a crowded forum? For all the affection that they have expressed in their letters to one another, there are far too many listening ears to encourage the familiarity that emerged between them on paper.

Anne catches Cromwell's eye as the two continue their rather forced talk of the weather, and they share a hopeful glance. A lesser Prince he may be, but if this visit can be successful, and Filipe proves to be as fair a youth as he has been portrayed, then perhaps there shall be a marriage at the end of it; and England shall have hopes of an heir.


	48. An Inconvenient Mother

Cranmer is struggling somewhat, being obliged to revert to at least some portions of the Latin Mass as he leads the congregation through Quinquagesima celebrations in the vaulted surroundings of the Chapel Royal. In deference to their guest, Elizabeth and Anne are not worshipping separately from the rest of the Court in their closets, but are instead seated on richly upholstered chairs alongside the young Prince from Portugal while their Courtiers stand to their rear.

Elizabeth, however, has been clear in her instructions. While she has no wish to immerse herself entirely in popish ritual, she wishes to welcome her visitor courteously, and therefore has stipulated that the service shall be be partly in English, and partly in Latin. England is a nation that permits both the Roman and Reformed faiths, so to deny a catholic visitor access to the Mass seems a very poor gesture when he has only just arrived. That said, the use of English as well is a clear message to those who might be hopeful of further concessions that the settlement is not to be changed: the Church of England remains ahead of the Church of Rome.

Filipe has been granted access to the small chapel that is set aside for the Ambassadors from countries where the Mass is still celebrated, and Damião's personal chaplain has been assigned to see to the young prince's spiritual needs in private. He has not protested at the use of English in the service - but then, he has been here only three days and has no authority, so his true feelings upon the matter may well be unsaid out of equal courtesy.

Her expression may be neutral, but Anne is struggling with a conflict of her own. There was a time when she would have commanded her daughter's entire attention and company, not out of a demand to do so, but because Elizabeth looked to her as her mother, and loved to be with her. Even when the Queen was established in her own household within the Palace, she still did so, extending an open invitation for her to be present as she wished. There have been many evenings when she has remained within her own apartments, allowing her daughter to entertain privately - but yesterday was the first time that she was obliged to do so, as Elizabeth asked that her chaperones be her own ladies, George and Mr Cromwell.

She is relieved that her daughter is not fool enough to wish to meet with Prince Filipe alone; to do so would invite crude comments and snide gossip over her virtue, and she has been taught to guard her reputation with the ferocity of a tiger. No, it is the discovery that Elizabeth is reaching an age where she must assume some of the burdens of womanhood, and thus her mother's presence is not required.

As they rise from the service, she - almost inevitably - turns to Mr Cromwell, who is standing nearby in conversation with Mr Rich over some inconsequential matter relating to the forthcoming Shrove Tuesday feast. He may have lost his daughters before they could marry, but he has a son, and perhaps knows what it is to find that a child no longer looks to the parent as the centre of their world.

"I shall see to it." Rich agrees, before departing, and Cromwell turns to Anne, "An issue with the supply of fowl for the feast, Majesty."

"If there is ample meat in its stead, I shall not be too alarmed." She pauses, "May I speak with you?"

"There is no need to ask, Majesty. I am ever at your disposal."

"Sycophant."

"Naturally."

The two exit the Chapel and return upstairs to the private royal apartments, where Nan, Margery and Caroline are supervising the laying out of her gown for her attendance at a grand supper to honour Filipe's presence, "I fear that I am becoming superfluous, Sir Thomas."

"Ah." Of course he has noticed. He misses nothing.

"I do not ask you divulge all that occurred in her Majesty's apartments yesternight; I am not willing to impose upon my daughter's right to privacy. It is merely that I am finding myself to be superseded in my daughter's affections, and she has no wish for me to be present as she spends her time with her Ladies and his Highness. I fear I am becoming…inconvenient."

Cromwell smiles, sympathetically, "I fear that is the curse of parenthood, Majesty. We bring them into the world, nurture them, care for them and love them - but in the end we are obliged to let them go. It was not so hard with Gregory, for he lived away from home for much of his education; but my girls lived long enough to find my presence an embarrassment if they wished to entertain friends, for all their love for me as their father. It is ever thus. If they cling to us, then we have failed them, I think."

"And that is a failure that England cannot afford. I have defended her as best I can from those who would use her for their own political gain; and now I must release her from that protection to learn from her own errors as much as mine."

"We always knew that this day would come, Majesty." He reminds her, "It is the culmination of the collective task we set ourselves when we set aside our enmity to save our own lives. If her Majesty cannot rule England, then we have failed utterly in that aspiration."

"Then I must stand aside and allow Elizabeth to make her way as Queen; to err and learn from those errors and to intervene only when she seeks aid. It is too soon, I think, to abandon her to her own devices should we face a greater threat than a poor harvest or a savage winter; but it is time for her to stand alone."

"I think that to be so, Majesty." Cromwell agrees, "I remain her Lord Chancellor, and shall advise her as I have advised you: Frankly and honestly."

Anne'e eyes grow a little distant, "I once told George that, should I wish to cling to the power of a Queen ahead of my daughter's claim, he must warn me of it. I am not sure whether my reluctance to accept Elizabeth's wish to entertain alone is pique at my being surplus to requirements, or at her assumption of her rights and prerogatives as Queen in defiance of my status as Regent. I am fearful that it might even be both."

"That is not for me to say, Majesty." Cromwell admits, "I serve both you and her Majesty. My status remains unchanged regardless of the identity of the one who rules. I am not perhaps the most appropriate person to advise you on that matter."

"Perhaps not - but you are the one in whom I place the most trust. You promised me, when this first began, that you would serve me absolutely, and would keep nothing from me. You have kept that promise where others might not have done, and for that I am grateful to God for restoring our confidence in one another."

He bows to her, "It has been an honour. I hope that it shall continue to be an honour."

"Heavens, yes, Mr Cromwell. I am not ready to dispense with you just yet. Now, get you gone - I must prepare myself for public display, and that is taking far longer than it did when I was younger."

He smiles, bows again, and withdraws.

* * *

The shipwrights at Wapping have been most interested in the Galleon _Rainha de Lisboa_ since her arrival in the port of London, and their keenness to talk to those who sail her has not gone unnoticed. Thanks to the Lenten fast, the Court remains at Whitehall rather than embarking upon a wasteful progress so early in the year, and the need to find something useful for Prince Filipe to do is rather pressing.

Thus, in the face of a light drizzle that mists the Pool and shrouds the distant bulk of London Bridge, Wiltshire and Sir John Russell have accompanied their visitor to meet with a sharp-witted young man recently arrived from Deptford with a large leather folio of drawings and designs, eager to share knowledge with the builders of some of Europe's finest ships. Mathew Baker is a mere eighteen years old, still apprenticed to his father; but his eagerness to innovate, and - remarkably - to look to designing ships on paper, rather than laying vessels down on site and presenting the patron with a model is entirely at odds with usual practice. He has been at the Pool for no more than a month, but already has caused such ructions with the master shipwrights with his insistence upon mathematical measurements and scale drawings that the Lord High Admiral has been obliged to investigate, and is most interested in what he has found.

In spite of his sheltered existence, Filipe is also most interested in ships, and has studied the drawings of his father's shipwrights with great interest. His expertise is not that of a man with practical experience, but his theoretical knowledge is extensive, and the discovery that there is a young Englishman who has similar interests has piqued his curiosity.

"Do you think that the boy is right?" Wiltshire asks Russell, as they watch the two young men perusing a drawing.

"It is possible." Russell admits, "Present practice is to lay the ship down at the construction site, and build it according to knowledge passed down from master to apprentice. Thus the only means by which a patron can envisage the final vessel is to view a model of it. Until it is built, he shall have no knowledge of its seaworthiness, how it is constructed within the hull or how it shall sail. Modifications are made only after the ship is built, and it cannot be certain that they are for the better until the ship has sailed again."

"Would Englishmen be more willing to accept this young man if he proved to be an advocate for advancements in the English fleet, do you think?"

"If they work, and English merchantmen can win prosperity for the realm as a consequence, then it is quite possible that he could win the love of her Majesty's subjects." Russell nods, "The Lord Chancellor, when he was Treasurer, set aside monies to pay for a Navy that shall serve us in times of both peace and war. Should any attempt to invade us, they must come by sea - and thus it is for us to repel them there. Should we need to, and we can do so with superior vessels that were developed with the aid of the Queen's consort, what better?"

Wiltshire nods, pleased, "They seem to have struck up something of a bond, I think." He watches as Baker animatedly points out various marks on his sheet of rough paper. It is equally clear that the only difficulty the young Prince has is identifying the English terminology for the parts of the ship. He points to another spot on the drawing, and Baker nods with interest. It could not be clearer that - used as he is to his ideas and suggestions being dismissed - he is finding it most exciting to have them accepted with such interest.

From his vantage point, Wiltshire has no idea what they are discussing; something about the reduction in height of the forecastle and its correlation to greater stability for the ship, alongside methods of constructing longer hulls, draughts, weights and riggings of sails that are far beyond his knowledge or understanding. Beside him, however, Russell is nodding with approval, "That young man is very knowledgeable, and so is his Highness. The Master shipwright has prevailed upon me to dispatch the boy back to his father with a flea in his ear. I think, however, I shall set him to work upon perfecting his designs. A suitable space in the offices of the Clerk of the Navy should suffice - I think Mr Howlett shall be most interested. He has been agitating for more discipline in shipbuilding from the moment he took up the post."

Filipe rises from his perusal and turns back, "Sir John, this is very good."

Russell steps across to join him, "From what I have overheard, Highness, I am in agreement. It has been my plan to speak to Mr Baker since he arrived from Deptford."

"I shall ask her Majesty if he can stay. Our ships are most fine, and I should like it if England's ships were also fine, for I shall soon be an Englishman."

"That is my wish also, Highness." Russell turns to Baker, "Mr Baker, I shall require her Majesty's agreement to do so, but I should like you to remain in London and present your designs to the Council of the Navy. I have not yet had the opportunity to peruse your documents, and I wish to correct that oversight."

"Thank you, my Lord." The youth is astonished at such fortune, "I give you my word that I shall prove myself equal to your offer."

"I shall also advise your father that you have been employed by the Crown. I suspect that he shall expect me to box your ears for your presumption, but I think England's need is greater."

Baker looks even more relieved.

The Prince smiles broadly, "Then we shall make a…a… _marinha_ that shall be as good as my father's. No, _better_."

Wiltshire and Russell exchange a glance - it is as though he is an Englishman already. Perhaps, if this works, the rest of England shall think the same.

* * *

Rich has lost count of the number of times he has emerged from the Hall with a napkin containing a hastily assembled meal for the Lord Chancellor. While he breaks his fast quite royally, and certainly sups very well, Cromwell's adherence to the requirement to consume dinner is often compromised by his immersion in his work.

Today's gathered repast is bread and beef, which he sets down upon Cromwell's desk, causing his colleague to look up, "Ah, is that the time?"

"What has captured your attention, Thomas?" Rich draws up a chair, for it is clear that Cromwell has received news of considerable concern to him.

"Something that, I think, was inevitable; but it remains, nonetheless, startling." Cromwell hands over a sheet of rough paper, and Rich reads the letter scrawled upon it.

_My Lord Cromwell,_

_I write in great haste to advise you that his Majesty, Erik of Sweden, has been removed from his throne by members of his nobility. While we were aware of rumours that he had participated in the killings of members of the Sture family, they remained very much rumours, and the King - for a while at least - seemed to recover his wits._

_It appears, however, that this was but a temporary state of affairs, and his instability could not be contained any longer. Thus the nobility has rebelled against him, and plans are in place to set his younger brother upon the throne._

_I had assumed that her Majesty Queen Mary would act as regent for her son, but it seems that this shall not be so. She remains upon her estates, and has not been called back to Stockholm - ostensibly at the behest of the new King; though it is speculated that this is instead the intention of the higher nobility, who intend to select a Protector from amongst their number. The rumours of her Majesty's return to her overt celebration of her Catholic faith following the death of her husband are widespread, and it has been confirmed that she has masses said daily for the repose of the late King's soul._

_In spite of this devotion to her late husband, she lacks the love of the nobility, and I fear that they shall do all that they can to keep her from her son. I shall do all that I can to ensure that our treaties are respected - but it is my considered opinion that if Mary does not remain upon her estates, she may face exile. Thus I write to you to warn you, for fear that her Majesty may find herself obliged to welcome her half-sister back to the Realm._

_As I am shortly to retire from Stockholm, I shall apprise Sir Anthony Greene of the matter when he arrives to replace me, and advise you in more detail upon my return to England._

_William Stamford, Kt._

"Hell, that is not good." Rich sits back in his chair with a sigh.

"It may be that Mary shall remain in Sweden." Cromwell speculates, reaching for one of the chunks of bread, "For all the circumstances that led her there, she found happiness with her husband, and he respected her faith in spite of Sweden's reformation, and she equally respected his. It does not surprise me at all that she has masses said for him; for, by all accounts, she loved him, and he returned that love."

"And if she does not?"

"If she does not, then we shall see where she plans to go. It may be that she shall retire to a country that is more welcoming of her religious preferences - Spain, for choice, as she could look to her Cousin for aid. There is little worth in fearing that she might attempt to reclaim England while she remains where she is. Our best course is to appreciate that it might happen, and be prepared to counter it." He looks up at his colleague, "Do you intend to advise our conspirators?"

"If you are in agreement." Rich nods, "It seems sensible that they be advised. It is a certainty that they shall do what they can to approach her if she is exiled, so the more that we know of their activities, the easier it shall be to counter them."

"It seems that she, too, has become inconvenient." Cromwell mutters, mostly to himself.

"Pardon?" Rich looks up from his contemplation of the letter.

"It is nothing. I was just thinking aloud."

* * *

The Steward holds the letter uncertainly, for the man in the chamber is not the man to whom he is permitted to hand it. Boleyn is absent, busy with his trade and rumour-gathering at the cloth hall, and only Brandon is in residence.

"What is that?"

"I…er…it is a letter."

"So it appears." Brandon holds out his hand to take it.

"Sir…I…" the Steward dithers, uncertainly. If Boleyn knows that he has handed it over, he shall almost certainly be dismissed.

The former Duke curses inwardly. He has no argument with this inoffensive young man, and does not wish to leave him bereft of his position; but he is tired of the blasted former Earl keeping all missives to himself and handing out only morsels of knowledge, "Then tell him that I snatched it from you and struck you in your attempt to protect it." He snaps. To strengthen his point, he grasps the sealed document and wrests it from the steward's hand.

_It has reached my ears via our informant that his Majesty Erik of Sweden has been deposed and imprisoned, and the boy John is now King. As he is not of age, his elders amongst the nobility intend to form a protectorship. As they are poorly disposed to her Majesty, Queen Mary of England, it is thought that they might dismiss her from the Realm. If that is so, I shall provide the funds required to travel to a point where she can be met and escorted to a safe haven from which the reclamation of England can begin._

_I trust that work has been undertaken to make contact with a suitable man within her Majesty's household. If that is so, then we shall be prepared to aid her. Once we know that she is ready, we can bring England back to the true faith, under the reign of her true Queen, and the Heretics shall be driven into the sea._

_N._

Brandon's eyes widen at the news. God above - it might happen…he might at last be able to keep his promise to his late friend. It has taken far too long - _years_ longer than he had wanted it to be; but Mary has now ruled a Kingdom, and has learned all that she needs to know in order to do so wisely and well. Where once she had been a girl with only her faith to guide her, she is now a woman with experience and knowledge. England's usurper is still not yet of age, and thus it remains possible to claim that others rule in her stead. This time, the Realm shall look to a daughter of Henry that does not need a protector, or a regent…

He looks up as the door opens, to see Boleyn has a disgustingly satisfied look upon his repugnant face, "What?"

"It is done." The Concubine's father boasts, "A senior steward in her Majesty's household has agreed to speak for us should the need arise, and shall advise us should her Majesty require our aid. He is sworn to secrecy upon the promise of a handsome reward when she is properly restored to her realm." The pompous expression becomes inquisitive, "What is that?"

"News from Norfolk. You are too jealous in your guarding of his correspondence. I had to force it out of the Steward's hands." It is likely that Boleyn shall dismiss the poor young man anyway - but he can at least do what he can to absolve the boy of blame.

Boleyn holds out his hand for it. For a moment, Brandon considers refusing to relinquish it, but judges such an act to be beneath him, and hands it over.

"Interesting. It seems that my efforts have come to fruition not a moment too soon. I think then that the boy shall not be dismissed, but I shall have him whipped to remind him to whom such missives are to be given."

Brandon rolls his eyes in disgust, but does not comment. There is little that he can say that shall not be met with scorn, for he has been unable to aid the enterprise to even a tenth of the degree that Boleyn has achieved. He is a soldier, a Courtier and the manager of extensive estates; he lacks the skills that his hated co-conspirator demonstrates in such quantity, and Boleyn rarely allows him to forget it. God above, he shall enjoy the moment that the man lays his head upon the block, once the Queen sees him for what he truly is: a craven opportunist who would kiss the feet of the antichrist himself if it would gain him preferment…

He rouses himself from his bitter musings; such grousing is of little use to anyone, and certainly not to his Queen. For all his motives, Boleyn has ensured not only that they are ready to aid the Queen should she depart from Sweden, but that they have the funds to support her Embassy if she does. At least, if she is able to claim England again, he shall come into his own as a commander of soldiers, and finally make his fullest contribution to her destiny.

* * *

The horses thunder across the parkland of St James, following the hounds as they chase the stag out of a patch undergrowth and into open ground. While they still observe the Lenten fast, any beast they run down today shall require time to hang, and thus shall not be ready for consumption until the feast of the Resurrection, so none feel any sense of discomfort in doing so.

Elizabeth's skill in the saddle exceeds that of her mother these days, and she is to the fore of the hunt, though it seems that her betrothed is equally capable, and the two match one another pace for pace. In their wake, Anne marvels at her daughter's abilities, far more than her mild disgruntlement that her gelding cannot keep up. Their first quarry was a doe, and was thus permitted to flee; as she is likely to have a fawn in her care, and the maintenance of the herd is essential. Now that there is a stag in their sights, however, the hunt is on; and all are riding to the best of their skill.

After nearly a half-hour, the hounds bring the stag to bay in a copse. Once, Henry would have demanded the right to the kill, but he is no longer here and the task has always been undertaken by her Majesty's Master of the Hunt. Today, however, that right is Filipe's and he quickly proves able to handle the crossbow, efficiently ending the life of the exhausted creature with a quarrel to the heart.

Leaving the carcass with the gamekeepers to be transported back to the game cellars, the hunting party moves on to a small gathering of awnings and pavilions where they shall dine upon a fine selection of fishes, though the richer pastries that would normally be served are not present, being far too extravagant for those who are observing the season of Lent.

The Portuguese prince has proved to be a friendly, personable young man who has made many friends around the Court. Concerns that he might prove troublesome over the problem of his rank once married have been allayed to some degree by his behaviour, and his interest in developing England's naval capabilities with new designs for her ships. Being unlikely to inherit the Kingdom of his birth, he seems quite content to be adopted by the Kingdom into which he is to marry - but no one is fool enough to think that he shall accept the reality of being a King in name only with such equanimity.

Elizabeth's talent for languages has widened the number of tongues that she speaks, though she is new to Portuguese. Nonetheless, she is keenly taking the time to learn her future husband's language, and the pair converse regularly in one tongue or the other. Where they struggle, they switch to latin, which Mistress Astley finds most amusing, though she prefers it if they do not speak in Portuguese, as she does not understand it.

The air is warmed by the sun in spite of the earliness of the season, and the gathering is most congenial. Castor and Pollux have been delivered, and are causing much laughter as they harass an unfortunate young steward attempting to serve her Majesty from a dish of roasted tunny.

Supping from a small bowl of light pottage, Anne regards her daughter with a combination of pleasure and sadness; pleasure at Elizabeth's happiness, but sadness at the knowledge that another brings her laughter now, as well as the mother that she still loves. In that moment, she thinks of Mary; separated from her son and unable to participate in his upbringing, for he is now King. Even had he not been, she would still not be able to share his company, for boys are not educated by their mothers, or in their mothers' households. How must it feel to be so far from one's child? It is only now that Elizabeth is old enough to be of her own mind that she begins to understand that sense of bereavement. If Stamford is correct, then not only is she not permitted to see her son, but he is now being systematically taught to despise her; for he - or perhaps whoever now rules for him - has ordered that she not return to Court.

It has never occurred to her before to feel such sympathy for a woman who she once hated so deeply and saw only as a deadly threat to her daughter. Even her regret for the manner in which she imparted the news of the girl's marriage seems minor in comparison. That is done - long into the past. Now Mary is isolated and abandoned, and obliged to reside far from a Court where once she was a King's beloved consort.

As long, however, as she stays there.

Setting aside the bowl, she sighs to herself. Once again, her rival's daughter has risen to occupy her thoughts, filling her with nervous speculation that Elizabeth's reign might be threatened by her half-sister. Why is it that, no matter how settled matters might be, there is always something that crouches upon the horizon like a cornered dog, poised and ready to strike? Why can a Queen never have a sense of safety?

Perhaps, alas, because she is a Queen. God above, how long ago was it that she quarrelled with her husband over the right to demand more authority than he considered her to be entitled to have? Now that she _has_ that authority, she wonders what on earth she was thinking.

Her mood considerably dampened, Anne is relieved when Elizabeth calls for her horse in order to ride back to the palace. A hard ride always lifts her spirits, and this afternoon is no exception. By the time her horse is being returned to the mews, and she has exchanged her riding habit for a fresh gown, she is smiling to herself as she reaches for a small book of poesies, and sits back in her favourite chair.

"Majesty, the Lord Chancellor is without."

She looks up, surprised, "Show him in, Michael."

When Cromwell enters and bows, he is not alone; a man in dark green velvet stands beside him and also bows. She has never seen this individual before, and wonders who he might be, and why her Chancellor has brought him into her presence.

"Majesty, forgive my intrusion. Allow me to introduce Sir William Stamford, our erstwhile Ambassador to Sweden."

"Ah yes, welcome back to England Sir William; I trust Sir Anthony has been fully apprised of his duties?"

"Yes Majesty." Stamford's voice is deep, yet smooth - like a fine claret - but his expression proclaims that he is to impart news that she shall not like, "While I had intended to make a report upon matters in Sweden upon my departure and return to England, I was not anticipating the news that I must impart to you."

"Go on." She can almost guess what he is about to say.

"I fear that, her Majesty Queen Mary, Dowager Queen of Sweden, has been stripped of her titles and lands by his Majesty's Council, and ordered to depart; on the grounds that she has stirred discontent in the realm through her refusal to abjure her popish rituals." Stamford admits, "It is upon the orders of the King, but all believe that it has been prompted by the nobility who rule in his name during his minority."

Anne feels a deep lurch in the pit of her stomach, and gives thanks for the tightness of her lacing, "Does she intend to return to England?"

"At this time, it is not known. The Council have granted her no aid to depart the Kingdom, and she has been given one month to secure passage to another realm, at which time she shall be turned out of her house."

"God have mercy - how can they hate her so? Has she truly fomented discontent in the realm?"

"Not to my knowledge, Majesty." Stamford shakes his head, "On the contrary, according to all reports that I have seen, she has been most discreet and has avoided such behaviour. The Noblemen who currently vie for the rank of Lord Protector wish to be rid of her in order to keep control of her son, and thus they make a false claim in order to justify their act."

And again that dismay is tempered by sympathy. She knows what it is to be hated; God's wounds, she does. It seems that she is not alone in being an inconvenient mother. It also seems, however, that Mary is equally unfortunate in not being blessed with a capable councillor with whom she can ally. With no Mr Cromwell at her disposal, and far from the Palace where her son resides, she cannot grasp the Regency as her stepmother did.

"We must notify the Queen. As her Majesty's sister, it would be wrong for her not to offer assistance, and I have no doubt that she would be offended if we did not allow her to do so. I should prefer it that the Dowager Queen not be invited back to England, but instead granted monies to travel to her Cousin's court, or one of his subject realms. God knows the Empire is big enough to accommodate her in some suitable estate. If we are obliged to pay her a pension, then the treasury shall bear it."

"I shall ask the Lord Treasurer to make preparations for such an arrangement if it is accepted, Majesty." Cromwell adds.

"Forgive me for bringing such tidings, Majesty." Stamford sighs, "I had hoped to entertain you with tales of the people of Sweden, who are most delightfully courteous and welcoming - perhaps another time?"

"I should like that, Sir William. Thank you." She smiles at him. It is, after all, not his fault that the news he has brought her is bad.

Stamford bows with a delicate neatness that quite impresses her in comparison to some of the florid nonsense she receives from other courtiers, and departs.

"In addition to asking the Treasurer to make arrangements for a pension, Mr Cromwell," Anne says, her expression cold, "Ensure that he raises the matter with my lord of Norfolk at the first opportunity. We must know what they intend to do - for they shall surely send men to her side now."

Cromwell nods, and sighs, "Never a moment's peace, Majesty."

"Indeed, Mr Cromwell." She also sighs, "Indeed."


	49. An English Court in Exile

The chapel is silent but for a single figure, kneeling before the altar and working her way along the decades of her rosary with an almost obsessive determination.

Gustav would never have allowed this…never. But Gustav is dead - and, again, death has robbed her of the one who would speak for her against those who would take that which is rightfully hers. What has she done to warrant this? Why is it determined by God that she be required to suffer so?

No. Job's suffering was by far the greater, and still he praised his maker. It is not right to blame the Father for the actions of men.

Which one was it? That vile traitor Tryggve Bååt, no doubt, returned to scheme at her son's court with all the laurels and plaudits of that family from the tower of their castle of Vyborg. Bastion against the forces of Novgorod, those laurels are hardly unearned - but that politically rapacious Margrave is not the one who earned them, and thus looks to claim power and fame by other means.

Mary's fingers pass over the beads again, and again. She should be meditating on one of the mysteries but instead she seems only to move from bead to bead without even a thought of the prayers that should be said as she does so. Instead her meditation is upon all that she has lost, and the bitterness is deeper than wormwood in her throat.

Even now, the torn fragments of that letter sit upon her writing desk in her private chamber, as they fell when she clutched the paper in her hands and wrenched it apart in her rage. John is her son! Her child! And yet now he writes to her as though she is an incidental nothing; something that exists, but is no longer required. Or wanted.

The beads travel faster now, rather more faster than they should; and, at last, the chain can stand no more, breaking and causing her to drop the rosary upon the floor. Distraught, she lifts it: grateful that the beads are fixed to it, and thus only one has separated. Her mother would be so dismayed - it is the one bequest that she was permitted to keep, when her realm and crown were snatched from her.

"Forgive me, mother. I have failed you - for I have not ruled well, nor have I ruled the kingdom that is truly mine. They remain heretics, and equal heretics in _this_ realm now demand that I be dismissed from their godless presence. I swore once - _swore_ \- that I would reclaim the crown of England for my family and my Church. If I cannot be with my husband and at his side, be it here or in heaven - for my prayers shall continue to cleanse his soul until he can depart purgatory and take his place at the Father's table - then I shall reclaim my own Kingdom. Speak for me, intercede for me, mother - through the saints that you revere and with whom you now sit. Send a sign to me that my cause is not in vain. Should I retire to contemplate God, or should I return to my realm to claim it for my Father's house?"

There is nothing. Not a sound, not even a flicker of the candles upon the altar. Refusing to be dismayed - for, after all, God provides in his own time, not hers - Mary rises, curtseys towards the Host, and departs.

Helena is in her chambers, carefully arranging one of her gowns. Once, she could trust Susan, and Jane; now, she can trust Helena, who has been at her side from the day she first boarded ship at Tilbury. All of the ladies around her were those that she met upon that day, and their loyalty has been proven over and over again.

"I have selected the Tawny and bronze tinsel, Majesty."

"Thank you. That is one of my favourites. Have any more messages come?"

"No, Majesty."

She sighs, "Thank you, Helena." She stands still to allow her Gentlewomen to unfasten lacings and remove the large, bulky gown. Her days of wearing black out of grief for her late husband are over; forcibly ended by the brutality of her son's dismissal. He has - of course - not gone as far as to suggest that their marriage was invalid, but he has claimed that it was forced upon the realm, and thus is valid only in that it produced an heir. Thus he has forbidden her to continue to wear mourning. No - not John: for all his childish manners when he was small, he was never a petty creature. It is those vile, misbegotten men of the Council who want rid of her so that they can settle down to the altogether more entertaining activity of vying with one another to be Protector of the Kingdom.

If black is now forbidden to her, then she shall instead wear the dullest, most drab garments she possesses. Do they not understand what Gustav meant to her? Or she to him? He did not berate her when her first two pregnancies failed, nor did he wish to set her aside in favour of some other woman. He loved her, and trusted her to give him a son - and cherished both mother and child when she did…

Her eyes fill with tears at the thought.

"Majesty?" Helena looks worried, and Mary hastily dashes the tears away.

"Forgive me; I was captured by the thought of my late Lord. I shall sup in an hour."

"Yes Majesty." Curtseying, Helena ushers the women away, and leaves her mistress in peace.

Retrieving her mother's now-broken rosary, Mary seats herself at her desk and looks out across the parkland of the home that she must abandon. Her tears are no longer of grief, but bitterness. Everything that she has ever been given has been cruelly snatched away from her - and still her martyrdom goes on.

"Your Majesty?"

Shocked, she turns sharply to see Nils, one of her Stewards.

"What do you want?" she snaps, furious, "How dare you enter my presence uninvited!"

He shuffles, nervously, "Forgive me, Majesty. I would not have done so - but, I have a letter for you. One that your ladies should not see."

Frowning, she holds out her hand to take it, and her eyes widen at the script upon the folded document.

_Her Majesty Mary of England. First Queen of the House of Tudor_

Setting the rosary aside, she breaks the seal - an anonymous thumbprint - and fumbles with the paper to open it. For a moment, she has to concentrate upon the text. She has neither spoken, nor read, in English for a considerable time.

_Your gracious Majesty,_

_I ask you to accept our deepest condolences upon the loss of your late husband, and also in the face of the cruel betrayal that has been visited upon you._

_In the years since your exile from your rightful Realm, I have endeavoured to establish a suitable embassy to represent your interests against that of the usurper Elizabeth and her godless mother, who continue to rule in your stead in defiance of God's will and all that is right. Though I, and his Grace the former Duke of Suffolk, have been stripped of our titles through Acts of Attainder, we humbly offer our services to you as your Ambassador and Chamberlain respectively. His grace the former Bishop of Durham has recently reached us, and has offered to be your chaplain, so he shall be here to see to your spiritual needs._

_I have secured accommodation worthy of your noble state in the Town of Rostock, which lies in Western Pomerania. It is a port, and thus we shall send a ship for your disposal to depart Sweden and return to lands under the jurisdiction of his Imperial Majesty. Ladies shall be sent to see to your comfort in place of those who must remain - they have come from England and are of good families._

_While we shall be an Embassy in Exile, we are not alone in our aspirations. His Grace of Norfolk has declared for you, and shall provide monies for your use to maintain your household. We are also aided by a member of the Usurper's council, who shall apprise us of all the doings of that strumpet and her offspring. Thus we shall be prepared to win your crown as we were not when first we marched to claim it._

_As a token of our esteem, and our faith, his Grace, formerly of Suffolk, has sent a rosary of particular value to him. It is marked with his arms, and shall - we hope - serve as a comfort to you in your time of trial. Your Steward shall aid you in your preparations for departure. Your ship is named_ England's Pride _, and shall bring you to your rightful inheritance._

_In hopes of your return to us._

_Thos. Boleyn_.

Her hands begin to shake. It is the sign - she asked for a sign, and it has come. Solemnly, Nils steps forth and hands her a velvet pouch, from which she retrieves the promised rosary - yes, there is Suffolk's crest upon it. His nobility may have been taken from him, but she shall assuredly grant it back.

"I am for you also, Majesty. Wherever you shall go, if it please you, I shall follow."

Her expression intent, Mary looks up at him, "Thank you, Nils. Keep watch upon the port. As soon as the promised ship has docked, we shall flee this place and never return. If my son demands that I must begone, then I shall depart - and claim that which is, and has always been, rightfully mine."

Nils goes down on one knee, "Yes, your Majesty."

* * *

Jane Wiltshire is seated at the muselar for the first time in some months, though her expression is sad, for her return to court has been precipitated by the requirements of custom. William is now residing in the household of the de Vere family, taking his first steps into an education that shall form him into a nobleman of suitable state to marry well and serve his Queen when he comes of age. A little early, perhaps; but his precocious intelligence - perhaps an inevitable gift thanks to the brilliance of his family line - has made itself known in his younger years, and a mother may only oversee the education of daughters.

Grateful for the soothing music, Anne sits and reads the latest missive that Rich has received from Norfolk, "So, they intend to meet with her."

He nods, "He is providing all of the funds required to keep her in a noble state, Majesty. Previously, his support has been intermittent at best - but now that it is clear that she is to depart Sweden, he has opted to declare for her rather more overtly; presumably upon the assumption that she shall accept him as a highly placed nobleman without knowing that his support has only come to the fore now that he is likely to be rewarded for it."

"In addition to his inadvertent support for England's poor?" Wiltshire asks, smiling cheerfully; they all know that Rich's donation of Norfolk's bribes to charitable causes is somewhat reluctant.

"He is more likely to be rewarded for _that_ than anything else," Cromwell snorts, "given his determination to retain his popish beliefs."

"And do we think she shall make another attempt to steal her Majesty's crown?" Mary asks, a little nervously. Having not been present at Court when her sister set out for Barnet, she is less aware of the political considerations that tend to colour such momentous acts.

"At this time, her primary concern shall be finding a roof over her head where those who rule shall accept her presence." Cromwell answers, "While Pomerania lies within the Emperor's lands, it is ruled - as are most states beyond Spain - by princes who answer to him, and they may not wish to accommodate an exiled Queen whose presence threatens their diplomatic relations with England. We are not the small backwater that once we were. Now that we have our alliance with Portugal, access to the spice ports of the east shall increase our wealth considerably - and thus we shall be less tempting a prospect for invasion as we shall have the means to pay for our defence."

"I should think that the only Prince who shall truly accept her shall be the Emperor himself," Rich muses, "for he shall have no choice. She is his cousin, and thus to spurn her from his borders shall reflect poorly upon him - it does not do to turn away a blood relative looking for sanctuary."

Jane comes to the end of another coranto, "Perhaps not, my Lord; but he shall not wish for it. She has now been exiled from two realms, even if the second expulsion was not of her doing. To house her shall not tie well with his aspirations, shall it?"

Anne nods, "Indeed so, Jane. Our alliance with Portugal, and the betrothal to a prince of John's House has stayed his hand in attempting to force us to return to the authority of the Vicar of Rome. We have no need to ally with him in hopes of securing access to his acquisitions in the New World, as the riches of the spice Kingdoms are within our grasp - and he is still troubled by the Turk, so he is more concerned with leaving us unprovoked."

"Particularly as the cost of his wars with the Turk have emptied his treasury." Cromwell adds, "I understand that the Spanish _real_ must be debased again in order to avert bankruptcy, despite the great wealth that is being brought into Spain from his possessions abroad. Our determined avoidance of war, on the other hand, has ensured that we have been able to revalue the currency for the first time since his late Majesty's death."

"Not to mention his ongoing squabble with King Francis over the possession of the Duchy of Milan." Wiltshire smirks, "For all its supposedly noble aspirations, war is hardly helpful for one's coffers."

"She must go _somewhere_ , Gentlemen." Anne sighs, "And, once she does, her advisers are hardly likely to counsel that she retire into wealthy obscurity given their avowed intent in this letter. She is, after all my late husband's daughter, and I have no doubt that the loss of her Swedish crown has sharpened her intent to demand the English one."

Rich nods, "All that truly stands in their way is the lack of a permanent residence from which to petition for aid."

"Assuming any is granted." Mary adds.

"We shall discuss this with her Majesty in the morning, I think." Anne muses, "It would not do for this to be kept from her, or to decide upon a course of action without her consideration. She has maintained good relations with her half-sister for some years; so to find that those years of amity may now be overturned over the ownership of her crown shall be hard to bear."

"She may decide against it, Majesty." Cromwell adds, "We know of that which is offered, but not yet whether she has accepted it. Perhaps she may arrive at Rostock, thank her supporters for their constancy, but advise that she has chosen instead to look to a contemplative life, and intends to enter a convent, or retire quietly to an estate in Spain."

"You think she shall do that?" Rich asks, his expression slightly askance.

"No. But I can hope."

* * *

It is strange to see her daughter perusing Court papers rather than one of her beloved translations; but Anne recognises that her daughter is growing up apace, and her head has always been ahead of her flesh in terms of maturity. The time when she shall relinquish every remaining aspect of rule to the girl seated at her desk in her Privy chamber seems to be approaching at a greater speed than she would wish.

"Majesty." She smiles, and curtseys.

"Mama?" Elizabeth looks up, as do Anna and Jane, who rise to curtsey to the Queen Regent, "Is there a matter of concern?"

"I fear so, Elizabeth." She turns as one of Elizabeth's ushers brings a chair across, and accepts the seat, "It concerns your Sister."

Once, Elizabeth might have been bemused, but instead, she sags slightly, closes her eyes and sighs, "She has departed Sweden, has she not?"

Anne nods, "The former Earl of Wiltshire and Duke of Suffolk have travelled from Brugge to Rostock, where they intend to meet her and establish an English Court in exile that shall seek out the aid of foreign princes in order to return."

"I have often wondered whether she would do so." Elizabeth admits, "While our relations have been cordial for many years, and the gift she sent at Christmastide was most handsome, I have not forgotten that she attempted to raise an army against me, even though she failed. While she was occupied with a husband and son, my Crown was far from her mind - but the passing of King Gustav, and the departure of her son to his own household, the thought that she might seek mine again rose once more."

"I am sorry, my dear one. Had matters transpired differently, then we would not be facing this dilemma. We do not know at this time whether she intends to claim your Crown, or retire to live quietly in her Cousin's realm."

"She shall not retire, Mama." Elizabeth says, "We are both daughters of a King who brooked no argument from any man. We are alike in that aspect; I would not, and neither shall she. If she intends to fight to claim my throne, then I shall fight to keep it."

Anne smiles at her, a little sadly. War is such a wasteful enterprise; but, if it cannot be avoided…

"May I speak to you in private, Elizabeth?" she asks.

"Of course. Kat, would you?" She turns to Madame Astley, who nods and sets about clearing the chamber. Once they are alone, she turns back to her mother, "What secret do you wish to impart?"

"His Grace of Norfolk has also declared for Mary, and is providing the funds to support her in exile, my precious. That, while it is treasonous, must continue, for his activities are being watched - and one of his conspirators is upon the Council. As long as this remains the case, we shall know all that Mary does."

Elizabeth's eyes widen, "There is a traitor upon the Council?"

"No my darling. His involvement with Norfolk is solely to know all that is done. It is known to me, and continues at my behest, for it is helpful to us; besides, Norfolk is also paying to bribe him, so we have the services of a spy without being obliged to pay for it."

"This Councillor remains loyal to me?" Elizabeth's eyes are narrowing, and Anne finds herself feeling nervous for the first time. Henry had demanded loyalty in all things, and reacted with dangerous temper to even a false perception that such loyalty was lacking - surely her daughter has not inherited that flaw?

"He does, Elizabeth. All of your Councillors have served you with absolute loyalty - in some cases from the day that you were crowned. That service to you oftentimes requires those who do so to act in a fashion that seems treacherous in order to serve the good of the Realm, and your Majesty. They act to protect your crown, and England."

There is a steely undercurrent in her tone that capture's Elizabeth's attention at once, "Forgive me, Mama; I still have much to learn. My words were those of a tyrant, were they not? I must beware of that."

Anne takes her hand, "We must ever guard against tyranny - but equally we must not act with weakness. It is a difficult balance to strike, and one that I am not assured that I have always maintained. The need to always retain your father's favour in order to survive at the Council table led to the most dreadful accumulation of factions - and to the deaths of good men who might well have been well able to serve you themselves had they not been destroyed by that malign power-play. The reason that there are no factions upon your council is not because such behaviour is ended - but because all upon the Council are within the same one: the Elizabeth faction."

"I shall mark it well, Mama."

Anne leans forward and kisses her daughter upon the forehead, "Know that I am proud of you, my beloved daughter."

"Thank you, Mama."

* * *

The dockside of Rostock is a rough, noisy place, where cargoes are unloaded, but not passengers. Thus the small carrack _England's Pride_ has made its way up the Warnow to an altogether more suitable landing stage close to the streets of the town proper.

The welcoming party that stands at the Quay is hardly princely in its size, or its presentation; but it is, nonetheless, marked by its constancy and loyalty, and the banner at its head is that of England. Only two of the men are on horseback, while the third horse in the group waits for its rider, and is set with a velvet-covered side-saddle that is entirely fit for a queen. Behind them, a long rank of townhouses rise several storeys high, enclosing the paved dockside in shade and leaving limited space for those who disembark from the ships, and those who follow burdened with their belongings. Most of that seeming multitude who mill around the group ignore them: for they have other matters of concern, the strangers are foreign, and they are such a small gathering that it is considered to be of little note.

Being the only member of the English party to speak the tongue of the Pomeranian citizenry, it is Boleyn that has secured the agreement of the authorities to accept both _England's Pride_ and its illustrious occupant. He has used her status as Queen of Sweden to ensure that she shall not be turned away; the princes of this realm are subject to the Emperor and, given his current diplomatic relations with England, they might not permit her to land should they use her proper title.

Seated beside his loathed colleague, Brandon forces himself to admit to a grudging admiration at Boleyn's abilities to secure a fine town house of suitable grandeur for a Queen, staff it and persuade the city fathers to accept their somewhat dubious diplomatic credentials given that they have not been sent from England. Much as he despises Thomas Boleyn, Brandon is well aware that they could not have come this far without him, no matter how much money Norfolk might have thrown at their enterprise.

They all stand, or sit, a little straighter as the carrack is warped to the quay alongside the other vessels already docked; and there she is - Queen Mary of England, first of that name. Standing upon the deck dressed in black and tawny out of deference for her late husband, but equally crowned with fine jewels in recognition of her royal state. From a distance, she is a forlorn figure, accompanied only by one woman and a tall, thin man with a hangdog expression; presumably servants from Stockholm who have consented to accompany her. She seems almost shrunken, though she was never a tall woman, but then she has endured twelve years of exile, endured widowhood, lost two babes and had her only living son taken from her and taught to hate her.

Her walk down the gangplank is measured and slow; the very tempo of royalty. Immediately, both men dismount and step forth, each going down on one knee.

As Mary approaches him, Brandon is secretly pleased that she has chosen to come to him first. She extends her hand and he takes it to kiss it; and then he looks up.

Her expression is not one of joy, nor of pleasure to be free from an unjust exile; instead there is something else: a bitterness in her countenance that he could never have imagined. No - she is a goodly, Christian woman; even in all of her trials, she looked to God as her lord and guide - to the point that no amount of cruel experiences dulled that faith. It is because she is tired - she has travelled from her home to a strange place to be greeted by men as punished as she…

"My Lord." Her voice is hoarse, rather deeper than he recalls from the last time he saw her, "I am right glad to see you. You have been loyal to me from the first moment that my reign began - even if my crown was taken from me."

"It is my honour, and the fulfilment of my promise to your late father, Majesty."

"We shall honour his name, and pray for the repose of the souls of my parents this evening."

"Yes, Majesty. His Grace Bishop Tunstall is preparing to say Mass for that very purpose." He does not add that the wretched man turned up in Brugge barely three weeks prior to their departure, all-but prostrate with grovelling apologies, and promising loyalty despite his flight from her side at Barnet. Christ alone knows where he had been prior to that.

For a brief moment, there is a smile that hints at the beauty that once graced her Majesty's face; a beauty that has been dulled by long, cold winters, brutal politics and grief.

She turns then to Boleyn, "My Lord Boleyn - I am equally pleased to see you - for you have set aside filial connections to support the claim of the true Queen of England. Furthermore, your talents have been employed to my benefit, and thus have paved the way for my return. As I promised when we were betrayed at Barnet, I shall return to England and claim that which is mine by right."

"Thank you, Majesty." Boleyn bows his head and also kisses her hand. Alongside, Brandon forces himself to suppress the shudder of hate that seems to stab through his spine every time he hears the man's voice.

"Rise, my Lords." Mary is either oblivious to their joint attainders; or, more likely, ignores them, "I am glad to be ashore, and eager to refresh myself. Let us adjourn to the house that has been secured for me."

"It is a fine house, Majesty." Boleyn advises, "It shall suffice until you have reclaimed your palaces. His Grace of Norfolk has granted suitable funds for your household, to be at your disposal while you prepare to return to England."

"Which I cannot do from here." She reminds him, "We must find support from my fellow Catholic Princes, and rescue England from the heretics that have steered her into the dangerous waters of apostasy."

"That, we shall discuss once you are rested, Majesty. Your house has a chamber suitable to house your official Council."

"Thank you, my Lord. When we are in residence, I shall confirm your appointments as Ambassador and Chamberlain. Equally, I shall appoint his Grace of Durham to be my personal Chaplain. There shall also be appointments for my own companions." She indicates the two that came ashore with her, "Helena shall by my Chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber, while Nils shall be a Gentleman Usher."

"Yes, Majesty."

She accepts the horse, and is helped into the saddle by the tall man that is called Nils. Mounting his own beast, Brandon tries to quell his sense of concern. For all of her promises to reclaim England, the woman that sits to his fore is not the girl who left England. While her experiences would have changed her, he cannot shake the image of that stone-faced, bitter woman that had looked down at him with an air of unnerving propriety. Her soul seems to have darkened in the face of her separation from her son, and he wonders who shall bear the brunt of it should her quest for England succeed.

* * *

The gathering is of such size that it has been transferred to the Hall, as the Presence Chamber is of insufficient capacity to accommodate it. All present are in colourful garments, while those who are of the nobility are in their robes of state. Even the colour of the grand tapestries along the walls cannot compete. There have not been so many people present since the culmination of the Eastertide feast that ended not a week ago.

In his time in England, Filipe has proved to be personable, friendly to all and fascinated by the lives of the people ruled by the woman to whom he is betrothed. That said, while he remains unmarried, it is inevitable that he shall be so; all must hope that he shall _remain_ so once they are wed. The youths of the Court who have been assigned to his escort - all of them unmitigated gossips - have given no indication that he shall become despotic once a ring is on his finger, so hopes are high that they have chosen a consort well.

Seated upon a richly upholstered chair, a gold filigree diadem upon her head while her canopy of estate is held over her, Elizabeth smiles at the young man who kneels upon a richly embroidered cushion to await the granting of his dukedom. He has already created her Duchess of Guarda, and now it is his turn to invest him with a newly created rank: the first Duke of Wessex.

Plans for their wedding remain just that: plans. In spite of her wish to be his wife, Elizabeth is well aware that her subjects are far less keen upon the prospect of a foreigner wearing a crown in England. Thus he shall return to Portugal in the Autumn for a while, until the benefits of the treaties begin to take effect, and Englishmen are hopefully a little more amenable to his presence.

In the interim, however, the Court shall shortly remove to Hampton Court, prior to making a short progress toward the west country as the spring moves into Summer.

With no Dukes currently at Court, the highest ranked nobleman available to carry Filipe's Coronet would have been the Earl of Southampton, but for his retirement from Court owing to ill health. Thus it is Wiltshire who performs the duty, while Cromwell, as the highest ranked Officer of the Court, holds the letters patent. He would hold the robes, but his requirement to lean upon his stick in order to walk makes such a service impossible, so Warwick has taken on the task instead. Being barons, neither he nor Rich are permitted to wear coronets, but they are permitted to wear the same red robes as other noblemen, and thus the dais seems almost to be a solid rank of red and white, as though a blood-soaked snowbank.

Rising from her seat, Elizabeth approaches her husband-to-be, while Warwick, with the assistance of Rich, encloses Filipe in his new robes.

"We, Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, hereby invest upon our friend and prince, Philip of Portugal, the noble dukedom of Wessex, also we create him Earl of Mercia and High Sheriff of Glamorgan." Turning, she takes the ducal coronet from the cushion held by her uncle, and sets it upon her betrothed's head. In spite of the solemnity of the occasion, she cannot refrain from smiling at him, and he equally returns that smile.

Standing alongside, Cromwell notices, and is pleased; they are happy, and that bodes well for their future together. Limping rather awkwardly, as he is trying not to use his stick, he steps forth and bows as Filipe rises, holding forth the letters patent that confirm the granting of the honours, "Your Highness."

"Thank you, my Lord."

The gathered throng dissolves into chatter as the royal party withdraws briefly to allow the stewards to prepare the Hall for the midday meal. Filipe is already engaged in animated conversation with Sir John Russell, as the pair are keen upon the works at Wapping to develop the newly designed English carracks based upon Mathew Baker's carefully calculated innovations. His English is coming on well, while Elizabeth is happily perfecting her Portuguese, though she does so primarily to annoy Madame Astley, as her Chief Gentlewoman cannot monitor conversations in a tongue that is unknown to her.

"Have you notified our isolated plotter of this event, Richard?" Wiltshire asks Rich quietly as the three chief officers of Elizabeth's Council make their way through to the private areas of the palace to remove their equally ostentatious robes. There is little worth in ruining them with dropped splatters of gravy, after all.

"Most assuredly." Rich smiles, cheerfully, "He is rather discomfited at the slowness of the pace we are taking to introduce his Highness to England. I think he hopes that we shall act too quickly and thus anger Englishmen to the point that they shall look to someone more suitable to stand at their head."

"Then he is a fool." Cromwell shakes his head, "The culmination of his aspirations shall leave England in the exact same position as it is now. Even should they succeed, the issue remains the same. The only King that can be crowned is a foreign one. They shall still have to overcome the fears of Englishmen."

Once in his chambers, having set aside his hot, uncomfortable robes, Rich notices another missive upon a nearby table, left for him by his steward. It is sealed with a thumbprint, but the thick redness of the wax proclaims it to have come from Arundel. Most of the letters he receives in such manner are from his family, and the wax his wife uses is darker in colour.

Intrigued, he breaks the seal. Then sags as he reads its contents, "James, please send to my Lord Cromwell; there is a matter I must discuss with him."

They might have known that such hopes were foolish - but they had hoped nonetheless that she would seek contemplation; but it is not to be.

He looks up as Cromwell arrives, his entry proclaimed by the percussive thud of his stick upon the floorboards as he walks as quickly as he can, "It is not a convent, Thomas. She means to try again."

Cromwell nods, "That is no surprise, alas. Come. We must advise their Majesties."

* * *

Anne reads the letter, but does not ask how Rich obtained it. Elizabeth knows only that one of her Councillors is in pretended league with Norfolk, but not who he is.

"So it shall be as we feared." She says, quietly.

Cromwell nods, "It seems so. I think that, had she decided that she would retire to either an estate or a convent, those who have met her would acquiesce and permit her to do so. But it seems that she has emerged from Sweden in a bitter frame of mind, and is interested only in claiming the realm for herself, and for Rome. It seems that, since she could not overturn the reformation in Sweden, she shall do so in England instead."

"I shall not permit that." Elizabeth insists, her temper spiked by such a suggestion, "We have worked too hard to bring about a settlement that allows Englishmen the use of their own consciences. That she would rob them of that freedom is unconscionable - so we must take all steps that we can to prepare to repulse her should she indeed invade."

"In that, at least, we shall have time, Majesty." Wiltshire says, "She remains in Rostock, and must now seek allies if she is to secure men and ships to undertake such an invasion. The princes of Germany shall not support her, for the Schmalkaldic league are of a lutheran bent, even though they are subject to the Emperor; and his own concerns are such that he is unlikely to be interested in doing so either. It is not politically expedient to intervene in what is, essentially, a family squabble over a small island. Should she find that support, a fleet cannot be assembled in a day. Thus we can prepare England against invasion with appropriate care and thought, which shall also allow us the wherewithal to budget for it."

"See to it, my Lord." Elizabeth orders, calmly, "If my sister has not begun her overtures to those who might be persuaded to support her, then we can be ready for her before she has even assembled an army. I should prefer it if we did not have to go to war - but if we must, then we must do so wisely and carefully. The fewer men who must spill their blood over a 'mere squabble' the better."

"I would suggest that we do not act too openly in this matter, Majesty." Cromwell muses, "Should the traitor Norfolk discover that we are doing so, he suspect that his plans are known, and that only his conspirator here is the blab. We should lose our advantage."

The Queen nods, "In which case, we shall do so in the guise of developing a new trading fleet in the face of our renewed alliance with Portugal. As I understand it, Sir John, such works are already under way at Wapping. We shall, therefore, continue apace - removing each completed vessel to the coast for testing. Some shall be deemed successes, some failures, and some lost; but all shall be retained at diverse ports around the East Anglian coast. There they shall enter service as trade vessels, in preparation for a time that they might be required to be converted for war."

Everyone is staring at her. Not yet a woman grown, but already a keen strategist, it seems.

She ignores their astonishment, "My Lord Rich, can the treasury bear the cost of such activity?"

"Er…" he fumbles with his papers, then nods, "If we take care and are not profligate with our spending, then yes. Assuming that the new vessels prove their worth in sea trials, they should be put to use as soon as is possible; their service in trade shall aid in the construction of sister ships."

"She shall not have my Crown, gentlemen." Elizabeth's tone is cold, "I will not grant it to her. See to it that she cannot claim it." She rises from her seat, causing them all to bow, and sweeps from the room.

Anne turns to her most favoured advisers, "God above. I never thought to hear her speak so. She has ever spoken words that shall nourish the hearts of her people - but now she speaks of war as though it is second nature to her."

"She is a Queen, Majesty. Were she not to do so, then we have taught her nothing of worth about the burden of rule." Cromwell reminds her, "If she were to shrink from this challenge, then we have failed her."

"Perhaps." She agrees, a little doubtfully, "Though I wish we had not been obliged to do so."

They bow and withdraw, leaving her to her thoughts. That Elizabeth would eventually be required to be ruthless has always been known - but to see it writ so vividly upon her face, to hear the heartless iciness of her voice…

Sinking into a chair, Anne buries her face in her hands, and weeps.


	50. Wulfhall

" _Súpplices te rogámus, omnípotens Deus: iube hæc perférri per manus sancti Angeli tui in sublíme altáre tuum, in conspéctu divínæ maiestátis tuæ; ut, quotquot ex hac altáris participatióne sacrosánctum Fílii tui Corpus et Sánguinem sumpsérimus, omni benedictióne cælesti et grátia repleámur._ " Tunstall's reedy tones do not echo much in the makeshift Chapel, hung as it is with tapestries that seem to swallow up the sound of his voice.

" _Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen._ " Even now, that strange coarseness in Mary's voice sounds alien to Brandon's ears as she answers, her voice just slightly ahead of the small congregation.

" _Meménto étiam, Dómine, famulórum famularúmque tuárum Henricum regem Angliae, et Katerine de Anglia reginae, qui nos præcessérunt cum signo fídei, et dórmiunt in somno pacis_ " _._ Regardless of the passage of years, she has always prayed for the repose of the souls of her parents, absolving her father of the cruelties that he was at least a party to in his abandonment of her. The blame lies - to her mind, at least - wholly and utterly at the feet of that thrice-damned prostitute. Once, she would have clutched all the more tightly at her rosary and sought forgiveness for such violent sentiments; but now she sees them as only right and proper in the face of the creature who stole England from the Tudor line and sent her to a world where, once again, love was dangled before her, only to be snatched away.

" _Ipsis, Dómine, et ómnibus in Christo quiescéntibus, locum refrigérii, lucis et pacis, ut indúlgeas, deprecámur._ " Yes - let them sleep secure in the love of Christ, knowing that their child shall undo the wrong that was committed against their legacy as the true King and Queen of England.

" _Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen._ " Kneeling behind her, Brandon hears that harshness again, but also sees a rigid tension in her shoulders. She has always borne the cruelties that life heaped upon her with stoic faith and courage - but perhaps now there have been too many such cruelties. Job might have praised God for his miseries, but he was rewarded for his forbearance and raised higher than he had been before he suffered. Mary, it seems, has been tasked with claiming her rewards for herself - and all that she was is now buried under a cold determination that he never imagined she could express when he rode at her side from the Abbey of St Albans.

Dressed in richer garments than he has worn for a long time, Tunstall continues with the litany of the Eucharist, leading them in the _Pater Noster_ and preparing their communion meal. Such is Mary's piety that he is obliged to do so twice daily, as she expects to hear Mass morning and evening. Only between those two services does she devote her attention to matters temporal - and even then she is ever working her way along the decades of her rosary. To the bishop, who has spent years in a poor parish, posing as a lowly priest, such devotion is laudable, particularly as she pays him well for the service. He was not slow in securing a suitably embroidered cope to decorate the Chaplain of the Queen of England, or to resume the Purple once she had accepted him into her household and recognised his bishopric.

Of all those who reside under her roof, only Boleyn is exempted from the requirement to attend both Masses, as he is engaged in his Ambassadorial duties, which require him to be frequently absent from the house. For all Brandon's dreams of denouncing him, they need him; and thus he contents himself with the knowledge that he shall do so once they are safely in England and Mary is crowned. Whether she shall agree to his destruction is another matter - the father of her deadly rival as proved to be a servant of such use that even a claim that he is a reformer at heart might no longer be sufficient.

Or perhaps it might. Since her return from Sweden, Mary has become almost obsessively determined to stamp out Heresy in England - and speaks of little else. It is as though her intention to rule well and govern England with love has been overwhelmed with a savage loathing of the adherents to the Lutheran heresy. He shakes his head: no - that is unfair. She has good reason to despise them, for the reformers in Sweden barred her from court for her faith, then stole her son from her and turned him against her to the point that he banished her for his Realm.

They emerge from the chapel to find Boleyn awaiting her in her small Presence Chamber, "Excellency?"

Boleyn bows, "I am returned from the Court of the Elector, Majesty. While the princes of the German states have shown little appetite to aid your claim, they have promised you safe passage through their territories, and a worthy escort to Genoa from whence we shall take ship to Spain, and the Court of your cousin."

Mary scowls slightly, "They are cowards, then. But I shall accept their offer if that is all that they are willing to grant me. Thank you, Excellency. Send word to Charles of my approach. He is of my blood, and thus shall accept me and aid me even if these craven lordlings do not. The apostasy of England must be curbed, and the heretic women who have led her astray sent to the stake for their sin. I would once have defended the child Elizabeth, for she was under the rule of her mother. But now that she wears her illegitimate crown, she has not returned her Realm to God, and thus is as culpable as the whore that gave her birth."

Behind her, Brandon shudders. She is speaking of her own sister - and to that sister's Grandfather. Still bowing, Boleyn stiffens slightly, and the former Duke's expression becomes quizzical. Does he care for the daughter of his child after all? No - surely not. He abandoned them to seek to regain the honours that Anne took from him - and now, at last, those rewards are within his grasp. Perhaps he is now seeing the cost of those rewards, and how that shall look when he is called to account by the Almighty.

Her expression shockingly cold, Mary turns and seats herself upon the chair that, but for the lack of an appropriate canopy of estate, would be her throne, "Make no mistake, my Lords." She advises, "I have allowed myself to be used and cast aside for much of my life. No longer. England is mine; I was a fool to think that I could claim it through my name and blood alone, for my subjects were bought with promises and bribes to keep them contented with a heretic upon their throne. Heretics have brought me to this state, and thus they shall pay for it. England has been led astray for long enough - and we must act now if we are to bring her back to her proper place. My subjects shall not be bought with empty bribes of largesse; they shall be granted appropriate succour by the monasteries, which shall be restored to resume their perpetual prayers for the souls of men as they languish in Purgatory, and those who object shall be subject to the Inquisition, for I shall establish it in England to root out apostates. Yes, there shall be fire - but England shall emerge from it the stronger, as a sword emerges from the furnace and is sharpened for battle."

Now Brandon sweats a little; dear God, what is happening to her? Once she sought to win the love of her subjects, but now she seems bent upon naught but vengeance. Deeply uncomfortable, he starts to fidget with the rather small - but elegant - chain of office that she granted him upon making him her Chamberlain, which bears the crudely arms of England on a small enamelled escutcheon surrounded by slightly poorly-set red zircons to symbolise prosperity, honour and wisdom. Ah; wisdom...that appears to be a commodity in the shortest of supply. If he cannot turn her from her course, then she shall not bring England to a new Jerusalem, but shall instead bring it to ruin.

As he looks down at Boleyn, he sees it there, too. Boleyn is as perturbed as he. In the winning of their cause, perhaps they might find that it would have been better had they lost.

* * *

Baker is busy with a set of compasses, "There, that should suffice. I do not wish to lengthen the draught any further, or the gains that we make in stability shall be lost."

At his side, the newly created Duke of Wessex is nodding, "That is wise. Shipwrights in Lisbon attempted to do so, and we lost three ships in quick succession thanks to their miscalculation."

Standing nearby, Russell smiles with satisfaction. For all his sheltered existence inside Palace walls, the youth has not lacked for a practical education, and his understanding of mathematics is on a par with that of the remarkably talented young man with whom he is talking. It is, perforce, a short visit to Wapping, as the Court is shortly to depart upon a summer progress to the West country; ostensibly to visit the nobility of the west, but primarily to show Filipe the extent of the tin mining industry of the region, as that is their reciprocal means of trading with his father's realm.

The first of the newly designed carracks departed for Tilbury yesterday for sea trials, though it shall be berthed at King's Lynn, where the presence of one ship amongst many in one of England's lesser ports shall go unremarked. He is aware that one of the Council has entered into a pretence of conspiracy with a traitor in England, though the identity of the councillor is not known to him. He does not need to make too much effort to guess that the traitor is Norfolk. The need for secrecy is essential to ensure that they do not lose that source of knowledge of Mary's activities upon the continent.

"I shall dispatch the latest plans to the Master shipwright at Plymouth, Mr Baker." He advises, approaching the two young men still poring over the documents. "He is most keen to see your innovations, and to begin work laying down vessels that shall serve England in trade and - God forbid - in war." Filipe does not yet know of the danger Mary poses to her sister's realm; best to keep it that way given that he shall be departing for a time once the progress is done.

"Thank you Sir." Baker bows to the Lord High Admiral, then to Filipe, who grins cheerfully at him, "I think you shall be more famed than I when this is done, Mr Baker."

"I hope not, Highness." He grins back, "Fame means I must strive to be ever greater, and even _my_ abilities have limits."

The journey back to Hampton Court shall be undertaken by one of the smaller barges, as the reduced weight of the vessel enables the oarsmen to row for longer, and more quickly. The tide is low, but not yet flooding, thus making their passage beneath the great starlings of London Bridge relatively safe. It shall, nonetheless, be late this evening before they reach the palace that was once the Jewel of Wolsey's properties. Fortunately, Filipe and Russell are both deeply interested in shipbuilding and navigation, and their conversation does not flag; pausing only for the consumption of a light supper as the banks of the river slip by.

At the palace, on the other hand, all is busy as the Court prepares to depart. The first wagons shall leave in the earliest light of morning, carrying Elizabeth's great tester bed, plate and linens, while she and her immediate entourage shall wait a day before they follow. The stewards overseeing the movements of those participating shall depart after the midday dinner, as it shall take them far less time to traverse the roads than the slow plodding oxen that are transporting the baggage.

The relative size of the houses they shall be visiting is small, and thus Elizabeth has decreed a reduced number of Courtiers shall travel with her. Consequently, those who shall not accompany her are either departing for their estates for the summer, or preparing to do so.

Warwick has been appointed to remain in London to oversee the operations of government in the Queen's absence, though the rest of the Council are to travel with her. Percy attempted to have his son included in the retinue, a request that was gently declined by the Queen, on the grounds that there is not sufficient room for another gentleman unless one of her established Gentlemen of the Privy chamber were to step down. While he is careful not to show it too overtly, only a fool cannot miss his sulky scowlings over the boy's omission. It seems that, even now, he is still hopeful to shove the youth under his Queen's nose in hopes that she shall marry him.

Cromwell sighs as he looks over the last remaining items that he shall take with him. Perhaps there was a time when he relished travel, but now he considers it a monumental inconvenience. As Lord Chancellor, it is incumbent upon him to follow his Queen as she travels upon progress; but nonetheless he wishes that he could instead retire to his great house at Austin Friars for the season, half to oversee the actions of Parliament, half to see to all manner of items that require his attention at home. The prospect of spending that time in relaxation and leisure does not even enter his head. There shall be plenty of opportunity to rest once God has called him home, after all.

Wincing as he rises from his chair, he limps awkwardly across to the small coffer that contains a few of his most precious possessions. Nothing of his late wife, alas, as all of her belongings were consigned to a fire after she died of the sweat; but a few letters from his lost daughters, the first letter that Gregory wrote to him in latin, even a small cross upon a chain that once graced the neck of his mother. God, he is feeling his age today; perhaps it shall not be too much longer before he is reunited with those he has lost…

No. Not at this time - he cannot afford to depart this life while his Queen needs his counsel - and she has never needed it more than now. While Mary's plans cannot progress far unless she can find a realm that shall house her for longer than a short stay as she passes through to another destination; until that happens, they are safe from her. But happen it shall - eventually; so that safety is at risk, and thus he intends to face the danger of a rival Queen alongside the one he has sworn to serve.

"Jesu, you are a maudlin old man this day." He mutters to himself as he sets the coffer down and limps back to his chair. Next time, he shall use that damned cane. No matter how much he wishes it, he cannot continue to abandon it, not even for journeys of a few steps, alas.

One of his new ushers is at his side, "My Lord, his Grace of Wiltshire is without."

Cromwell nods, "Thank you, Daniel - show him in."

Wiltshire looks around the room, "Goodness, are you still so unprepared? The last baggage carts are becoming full - you shall have to pay for one of your own if you do not act quickly."

Cromwell smiles, "An uncharitable observer might suggest that I have done so deliberately to avoid participating."

"It is a great upheaval, is it not?" Wiltshire grins, taking a seat as the usher pours them some sweet wine, "Though I am still bemused at the decision to stop at the house of Seymour."

"Why not? He is a nobleman, he has proved to be no trouble to her Majesty and he may have some talent that her Majesty can employ in her Government. If there is talent in a man, it should not be ignored; moreover, to consign an entire family to opprobrium for the action of one of its own seems quite a waste. Had his late Majesty done so, then Warwick would not be serving his daughter now."

"Even though it is where her Majesty's father died?"

"Even though." Cromwell sighs, "It would do her no harm to know that her father was a guest of the family, and to know that they did their utmost for his mortal remains. The fact that he was there to court a rival to her mother need not be mentioned; let that be set aside, for they did what they could for him, and that in itself is a service to her. The elder brother paid his dues for his treachery; but his brother did not participate in that insurrection, and thus should not also be required to bear the burden of it."

"Most forgiving." Wiltshire smiles, "But then, it is that same forgiveness that won me the authority to handle her Majesty's privy seal, so who am I to judge?"

"We are all judged in the end, George." Cromwell adds, "I think I should wish to be judged as I have judged others. The days when I conspired for my own benefit are done, and I hope that God shall look upon my latter service in place of my former. He knows that I am no saint - even now I am not, for I still deceive as I must, and plot to protect the Queen. At least she has granted me a salary, so I am no longer obliged to embezzle my wages."

Wiltshire snorts with amusement; the great Offices of State are great prizes, yes, but remuneration was never a part of the deal, so wages have always been obtained through the sale of access to the King, or other less-than-honest means. Cromwell has always been one of the men at Court to petition for aid - though he never used to demand payment from those who were not rich enough to do the work for themselves. For all the hatred of the nobility, he is regarded with respect and gratitude by many whom he has aided, and all know that he shall never turn away a petitioner.

"Alas, I cannot delay any longer." Cromwell sets down his glass, "Daniel, summon Nathan and commence the transfer of my coffers to the baggage train. I shall sup in the Hall, and shall not change my garments, so I shall only require clothing for tomorrow and Wednesday."

"Yes, my lord." The youth bows and hastens out in search of his colleague.

"And so to the road, your Grace." He raises his glass to Wiltshire, "May it not be too rough, or too wet."

* * *

Anne feels a sense of strange nostalgia as they pass under the gatehouse of the park at Wulfhall and wend their slow way along the track that leads to the house. The last time she was here, her son was in her womb, and she was a Queen at the side of her King; convinced that her power over the Court was restored by her pregnancy, it had mattered to her not at all that they had come here while her husband was already paying attention to the Seymour chit. Why should she fear his behaviour? She was carrying his son - his heir. No matter how they might have argued, no matter how many women he might have glanced upon, a son would have secured her crown for the rest of her days: for he would never have declared a son to be a bastard.

And then her son had died, taking all of that security with him.

Now, however, she returns with a Crown still upon her head, and the daughter of their marriage is Queen. How ironic that her return is precipitated by another visit - the one upon which her husband had died.

Her memory of the wide parklands is dulled by the years since that last progress with Henry; and there is nothing now that she recalls from that approach to the house. It is only as they crest a small rise and the manor hoves into view that she remembers.

_I thought myself secure here._ She thinks to herself, _I had discovered my condition and thought that my son would save my marriage and restore my husband's love for me_.

What would her life be had that lost son lived? Would Henry have reconciled with her and dismissed that Seymour wench? Would he have been willing to be in her presence for more than the sake of appearances? Then she pauses - it matters not, for she might have lost her son, but instead her daughter rides ahead of her, surrounded by her ladies and the gentlemen of her Privy Chamber. As for herself, she is content to ride behind, with Madge, Caroline and Jane alongside her, and the men of the Council to her rear. The chit Jane shall not be present, for Mr Cromwell advised her before their departure that the woman was taken in childbed six years ago, having borne a son who lived not three weeks. It is hard not to look upon that outcome as God's judgement.

The new master of Wulfhall, the tall, strongly built Thomas Seymour stands at the great doorway of his manor. In spite of his wealth, and maturity, he seems not to have taken a wife yet; but is flanked by his two surviving sisters, the recently widowed Elizabeth and Dorothy, who is accompanied by her husband, a man of Parliament by the name of Smith.

"Your Majesty." He bows rather floridly, but fortunately not to the point of appearing crass, "Welcome to Wulfhall. It is our honour to host you as once we hosted your royal Parents." He chooses not to mention that they were hosting her father when he fell to his death from his horse.

"My thanks to you, Mr Seymour." Elizabeth smiles at him, "It is my pleasure to be your guest as once my beloved mother and father were." She does not mention that she shall be conferring a knighthood upon him in due course; that shall be done in the Hall before her departure.

"Your bed is prepared for you in the King's chamber, Majesty." He continues, "As my late father decreed, the chamber in which your noble father rested his head is now at your disposal."

She dismounts and, with the assistance of her ladies, straightens her riding habit and bonnet before accepting the curtseys of the two sisters, who present her with pomanders enclosed in cages of gold filigree set with emeralds and pearls, while a steward provides a salver of water scented with rosewater in which to rinse her hands.

Further back in the column, Rich turns to Cromwell, "Am I alone in suspecting that someone is angling for a place upon the Privy Council?"

Cromwell looks down at his saddlebow to conceal the smirk.

Elizabeth continues with the inevitable formalities of arrival as a guest, introducing her mother - as though that were necessary - and also her betrothed, though he is not spoken of as such, not yet. England is still not truly ready for a foreign consort that is not a woman.

Fortunately, Seymour is sensible in his gift-giving, confining the largesse to tasteful objects and useful items; a bolt of fine woollen cloth for a cloak, a sable fur that shall serve well as a trim, a gold-thread hairnet studded with small flowerbuds carved from quartz and a remarkably tiny clock upon a chain that can be worn at Elizabeth's waist. The chamber set aside for her has already been hung with tapestries brought from Hampton Court, though the wainscoting has been freshly scrubbed and oiled, and the plasterwork upon the ceiling seems to have damp patches from the newly applied render, "Thank you, Mr Seymour - this is most satisfactory."

"There is hot water prepared should you wish to bathe, Majesty." Anna advises, standing alongside a steward who has brought the news.

"I think I should like to; I have been upon a horse for such a time that I fear that I am beginning to smell like one." Pleased, Elizabeth turns back to her host, "I am most grateful for your consideration. If it please you, I should appreciate the time to prepare myself to sup."

"Of course, Majesty." Seymour bows, "Supper shall be served at five of the clock. Should you require refreshments, my steward is at your disposal." Again, he shows a degree of good sense as well as good manners, as he backs to the door, and departs.

The chambers assigned to the Regent are no less grand, and show equal signs of careful preparation. Anne recalls them, for she slept here during that last progress, all unaware of the ground that was starting to shift beneath her feet - stayed only by the child in her belly.

"I had forgotten how spacious these rooms were." She comments, quietly, as Jane Rochford pours out hot water for her to wash her hands and face, "Though not as spacious as those assigned to my late Lord. For all their treachery in those times, they were good hosts."

"And shall be again, I think, Sister." Mary smiles as she sorts through a selection of kid-leather riding gloves, "I should not be surprised at all if Mr Seymour has hopes of returning to Court."

"It is the place to be, after all." Jane smirks, "There Majesty. The water is not too hot. I can add more rosewater if you wish."

"Thank you, Jane. Could you fetch out my lute, please? I should like to listen to some _ballades_ while I wash if you could be so kind as to play them for me."

"Of course, Majesty."

Higher up in the house, in chambers that are of lesser aspect, but still suitable for the status of the guests, Cromwell sips at a glass of chilled ale and works his way through the inevitable papers that seem never to end. From his window, he can see that Seymour is already befriending Prince Filipe, as the pair watch two fine hawks being flown. His own eyes follow the first bird as it rises up higher and higher, until one of the gamekeepers breaks into a run, dragging a stuffed rabbit-skin behind him on a long line, while another lets out a sharp whistle, and the bird plunges to earth to capture the lure. To his credit, the young Prince has maintained the fiction that he is here solely as a guest in response to the renewed treaty with Portugal, and the conversation that is filtering up to his window, slightly ajar, is neutral and confined mostly to life in Lisbon.

A knock upon the door captures his attention and he looks up to see Rich peeking in, "I have more ale if you are interested."

"Ale, yes. Cards, however, no. I have lost quite enough money to your superior skill."

The pair sit and share the flagon that Rich has brought, talking of matters of little note. The years have developed their friendship to a deep trust in one another, and sometimes it is almost as each knows what the other is thinking, so long have they worked together.

"I have no news from Arundel." Rich says, swirling the ale in his cup and breathing in its hoppy aroma.

"That, I know: for you would have presented it had it come. I can only assume that she is _en route_ to whatever port she has chosen to sail from. There is no other way to travel to Spain without crossing France, or travelling too close to our shores by traversing the Channel."

"From what he has said," Rich muses, "the Dowager's temperament is not the same as it was when she departed. Her losses have embittered her, and England is to pay the price of it through inquisitions and suppression of the reformed faith. It is as though she can no longer see the political landscape in terms that are not religious."

"She blames reformers for all her troubles." Cromwell says. It is not a question, "Because that is the easy thing to do. Her father's life was a complex set of contradictions, and his determination to gain a son led him to turn his back upon his once-beloved daughter. Had he set her Majesty the Regent aside, then Elizabeth would have suffered the same fate, and Mary would not have been restored, either. To have no son to succeed him was, in his mind, the ultimate failure of a King, and one that would overshadow all else that he did. Many have paid for that obsession with their lives."

"And so shall more, if Mary is not quelled by the Emperor."

"That is our one hope, I think. It is not politically expedient to turn upon us - for he is still quarrelling with France over the ownership of the Duchy of Milan, and his easternmost territories are still under threat from the Turk. Furthermore, he has not the funds to support an invasion. His treasury is all but empty, and not even the fabled gold of the new world can replenish it, so costly are his wars. If Mary hopes that he shall furnish her with men and ships, then she shall be disappointed."

"And we shall have a fine new trading fleet." Rich smiles.

"Better that than warships, Richard."

"Amen to that."

* * *

The grandeur of the Palazzo Torchitorio vastly exceeds that of the house that she had occupied in Rostock, and Mary is most contented with the grand views from the huge windows of her apartment within it. Excellency Boleyn has arranged to rent it for a nominal sum from a Genoese nobleman sympathetic to her plan to reclaim her crown from those who have stolen it from her, and they shall remain in comfortable security while her Ambassador sets to work on arranging passage to Spain aboard a vessel of suitable state for a royal occupant.

While the journey south has been without incident, she has never enjoyed life upon the road, staying in a different chamber each night, enduring rain and insect bites aboard a horse, or being swayed to the point of sickness in a litter. The attempt to use a carriage lasted only for two days, the noise of the chains that held the box to the chassis as appalling as their failure to cushion the ride.

At least, here, she is far from the vile heresy that has robbed her of her mother, father, husband and son. As she has moved into firmly Catholic territory, her determination to save England from the sins of her subjects has sharpened all the more, for she grows ever closer to Rome, and is toying with the thought that she might attempt to seek an audience with the Holy Father. With his sanction, no one would refuse to aid her. She is sure of it.

As she does with a regularity that even her most pious maids are beginning to find tiresome, she settles before the sacrament upon a cushioned _prie dieu_ and prays for the repose of the souls of her parents, and of her husband; for she is determined that her prayers shall overcome the burden of his heresy, thereby shortening his time in purgatory while he atones for his sin. Then she prays for success in her plans to save England, and seeks God's blessings and agreement for the requirement to send so many to their deaths when she does so. For it must be done. Even her half-sister cannot now be spared, for it is becoming clear that even she has not seen the need to end England's apostasy. Perhaps, instead, she shall show mercy and allow the girl a clean death upon the block. But not the mother. No, not her…

Perhaps there was a time when politics guided her hand - but she has been denied happiness over and over again not by politics, but by religious sensibilities that are far from the true Faith. Thus she must gird herself in the armour of Christ and fight. Not merely for England, but for all Englishmen who are now bound in purgatory for half an eternity if not more, for there are no longer cloistered brothers praying upon their behalf to shorten their time there.

Two floors down, in the large chamber that has been set aside for what is laughably termed her 'council', given that it is formed of a mere three men, Brandon is pacing back and forth, heedless of the splendour of the tapestries upon the walls, or the richly polished floor upon which he walks. His thoughts scatter hither and thither, while he toys with his chain of office yet again. What is he to do? He cannot persuade Mary that she shall win no love in England if her agenda is motivated solely by religion. Why has she become so utterly fixed upon that one purpose? Does she truly believe that restoring the old ways shall make all right in England? Even here, in the countries that have rejected the reformation, or are countering it, those old ways are dying out. There is no way that she can assume that Englishmen will willingly relinquish the privileges that are now being extended to them. For all his loathing of Thomas Cromwell and his cohort of 'new' men, even he cannot escape from the reality that Englishmen are becoming educated, and a new class is emerging that shall not be willing to revert to the servile existence from which they have escaped.

It is all religion, religion, religion; as though there is nothing else - and the imposition of an Inquisition shall somehow make England right again. From Norfolk's reports, the realm is settled, men are prospering and those of lesser means are no longer seemingly punished for the heinous sin of not being wealthy. How can she win over such men with the promise of destruction, death and the removal of property to be handed back to the Church?

Boleyn looks up at him, "If she has nothing to offer Charles but religious upheaval, then he shall have naught to do with her."

It is no surprise to Brandon that he is thinking the same. For all his lukewarm adherence to any faith but mammon, he is highly politically astute, and sees things in a light that is untinged by religious sensibilities, "From what I have been told, she believes that the loss of her husband and son, and her expulsion from her former Realm, is God's punishment for her failure to eradicate heresy from England when she had the opportunity. Thus she intends to remedy that failure."

"Then she is an idiot." Boleyn's voice is low, but there is no mistaking the venom in his statement, "Englishmen shall not welcome her if she brings the Inquisition in her wake. What has happened to her political acumen? It was slight when she departed, yes, but she had not had the time to seed it and nurture its growth. She has lived in a Court for more than ten years - surely she has not failed to absorb that education?"

Brandon shakes his head, and shrugs, "I cannot answer that question."

"Then I shall have to establish a better _casus belli_ than this - or the Emperor shall cast us out with the laughter of his servants echoing in our ears."

"We have to get there first."

"I am awaiting word from a Captain in the port." Boleyn advises, "His vessel is of suitable size and condition for a Queen; but he is holding out over the price of our passage. I have offered him two thousand ducats and a cleaning crew to service the bilges upon the disembarkation of the horses when we reach Spain."

"Two _thousand_?" Brandon is shocked.

"Or would you prefer to remain in Genoa until Elizabeth has married and borne six princes? Should that happen, we shall _never_ get her off the throne."

Brandon goes back to pacing again; his fingers tracing over the delicate links of the chain about his neck as he does so. It is of little use, but better than standing and doing nothing. While they are in Genoa, they are helpless - but unless they can find a better reason to persuade Charles to go to war with England, they might as well stay where they are.

* * *

The ceremonial sword that Elizabeth holds today is far less delicate than the rapier she used to knight her Lord Chancellor, but she is more accustomed to the procedure now, and her words are assured as she bids Sir Thomas Seymour to rise.

In spite of frustratingly inclement weather, the visit has been a remarkable success. No one has mentioned the unfortunate accident that made her Queen at a mere three years of age, and she has not asked to be taken to the spot. Somehow, it seems pointless to do so, and not even Cromwell has made the journey in search of it.

The rain continues to pelt down with a most infuriating determination to defy the season, and Elizabeth is obliged to travel in her litter rather than on horseback, as their journey shall take the entirety of the day, and they have no wish for their Queen to catch a chill. The other ladies, and the Regent, shall travel in covered carriages, cushioned as best as possible to mitigate the awful jolting of the ride. Everyone else, however, shall be obliged to cover their clothes in cloaks of oiled twill and make the best of it.

Their destination is Ilminster, where Henry Daubeny of Barrington Court shall host them for a week. A man of illustrious family, who has been somewhat eclipsed by the rising stars of other Courtiers, but his reputation is excellent, and his wealth sufficient to support a longer stay by the horde that shall shortly descend.

As Anne had feared, the journey in the carriage is rough and unpleasant, and several of her ladies are clutching at vials of _sal ammoniac_ , as they groan weakly and attempt to avoid fainting. Poor Caroline has already been obliged to lean out of the carriage window, the sound of her vomiting giving cause to the others so stricken to grimace and moan all the more in their own sufferings. Jesu, they shall have to stop soon or everyone in the carriage shall have puked, and not all of the women have quick access to the windows.

The percussive sound of hooves upon the paved road for which she is only half grateful captures her attention, and she looks out to see Wiltshire riding alongside, "We shall be halting the column shortly, Majesty. There is a goodly inn a mile on from here that has been hired to see to her Majesty's needs."

"Thanks be to God, George. Is there any hope that this blasted rain shall let up? I should give my crown for the opportunity to escape this hellish carriage."

"I shall set my colleagues to praying at once, Majesty." He smiles at her, sympathetically. It seems as though this bloody rain is set for the day, and no amount of prayer shall disperse it, but a weak joke is better than nothing.

The promised inn is indeed of good aspect, and is entirely at the disposal of the royal party for the next three hours, should they wish it. With another three hours of onward travel before them, however, it is likely that they shall stay for two at the most. Assuming, of course, she can persuade her ladies to get back into the carriage again.

Elizabeth emerges from her litter and totters to the inn aboard a pair of red and gold pattens to keep her dainty shoes out of the puddles, while four ushers carry a canopy of oiled canvas over hear to keep the rain at bay. The innkeeper has dressed as best he can, despite being of a far lower class, and does his best to welcome her appropriately with many bows and continual hopes that she finds all to be to her satisfaction. Indeed, he only ceases to do so when she graces him with a radiant smile and assures him that his thoroughly scrubbed taproom is the finest she has ever seen. He does not need to know that it is the _only_ taproom she has ever seen.

Cromwell is grimacing with each step as he leans upon his cane to assist him in his walk to the door, and Anne wonders whether she should have prevailed upon him to remain in London. With things as they are, she would prefer him to be here - but it could not be clearer that his hip is painful, and near-on four hours in a wet saddle has served only to inflame it. Then she thinks upon it again and knows that she would have failed to do so even had she tried, "Jane," she turns to her sister in law, "Ask Doctor Lamb to see to Baron Cromwell's health while we are here. It may be that he has some physic or other that shall ease his Grace's discomfort."

"Yes, Majesty." She alone seems to have emerged from the carriage with no disturbance to her equilibrium, "I shall also ask him if he might have some ginger root to hand. Perhaps that shall settle disturbed stomachs."

"Failing that, we could try mint."

"That shall just make them hungry." Jane smiles at her.

"Better that than puking."

As they enter, Filipe has insisted upon fetching a chair for Cromwell, who is rather grey-faced from the pains of his hip and leg, which are clearly worse than he is prepared to admit. Dismayed, Anne crosses to the two men, "My Lord, you did not advise me that your discomfort was as bad as this."

"Until I was drenched by rain, Majesty, it was not." He answers, through rather gritted teeth, "The weather has afflicted my joints rather more poorly than I expected."

"Then we shall secure a carriage for you."

"That would be embarrassing, Majesty; I am strong enough to complete the ride."

"From your complexion, I suspect that you require some of my ladies' _sal ammoniac_ to keep you from falling out of your chair." She counters, "Thus I do not wish to have to halt the column while someone picks you up after you fall from your horse."

He sags a little, "Yes Majesty."

"There." She smiles, sweetly, "It is settled. Doctor Lamb shall see to your immediate discomfort, and I shall secure wheeled transport for you to continue the journey. I am sure the Lord Privy Seal and Lord Treasurer shall not object if there is room for them to sit with you."

They look across to the large fireplace where Rich is shaking out a sodden cloak with a mildly disgusted expression, while Wiltshire tips water from the brim of his leather bonnet, and Cromwell finally smiles, "Indeed, they shall not. But only if they are not sickened by the rattling of the vehicle."

"I shall have them fed with ginger."

"Thank you, Majesty."

* * *

The largest cabin of the vessel is very fine, dressed with beautifully turned and polished wood, with lanterns hanging from hooks in the ceiling and a wide bed set into the starboard bulkhead. Being at the rear of the ship, a set of windows allow the warm mediterranean sun into the space.

"Yes, this shall most certainly do." Mary nods, "See to the unpacking of my coffers."

The voyage shall not be long - a week at most - but it shall save them the impossibility of crossing France while he is the enemy of Spain, and on good terms with England. Even Boleyn almost baulked at the final cost demanded, but the captain knew of their urgency, and that there was no other vessel that a Queen would consent to board. Thus the two thousand ducats promised has been increased three thousand, and the cleansing after the horses are unloaded shall not be merely the removal of the manure, but also a thorough scrubbing down of the entire deck where they are to be stabled. Norfolk's letter in response to such a cost was quite sulphurous in its sentiments, but even he has accepted that they are at a disadvantage in this enterprise. Once England is Mary's again, he shall be repaid in full.

Their destination is Almería, the closest port of note to the Emperor's primary residence in Spain, the great Alhambra at Granada. He has sent messengers ahead aboard several merchantmen to ensure that the authorities of the Port shall not be unprepared for the arrival of the Queen, while she herself has written to her cousin to advise him of her departure from Sweden, and to request that he shelter her, citing their blood relationship to ensure that he is obliged to do so under the arcane rules of hospitality.

"My Lord Ambassador." Mary turns to Boleyn, "I looked upon you once as an enemy - but you have served me most well. I think, but for you, I would not be standing here, and I assure you that, once I rule England, you shall receive honours commensurate with that service. You shall not be granted your former Earldom; I shall instead grant you a duchy, with all the honours such rank demands."

He bows, "Thank you, Majesty." As he departs however, he is surprised to find that he is disappointed. While the granting of a dukedom is greater an honour than he could ever have hoped to secure; it pains him to know that heads shall be struck from necks should they prevail; and, as a consequence, he shall have no son to whom he can bequeath it.

Once again, Mary is upon her knees, looking out at the sunlight. Oblivious to the rolling eyes of her ladies, who are now obliged to step around her, she gives thanks to God for sending her such capable men to aid her in going about His work. With the turn of the tide, their vessel shall depart Genoa and carry her to her cousin's Court. There she can raise an army for God, and win England for Rome.

Above, on the Deck, the helmsman obeys the shouted commands of the pilots as his ship is warped away from the quayside by rowboats. Alongside him, the Captain watches as the men clamber into the rigging to set the sails. To his mind, the money that has been paid to him is of far greater interest than the stupid dreams of the woman below decks. Whatever her aspirations, the boat that carries her, _Sangre de la Reina_ , seems prophetic - though which queen it shall be who sheds blood he cares not at all.


	51. Enterprise

The wind is brisk, whipping the tops of the choppy waves into caps of foam while gulls swoop and glide with a casual expertise. Above Boleyn's head, the sails are billowing, and the carrack is making good progress.

Leaning on the rail, he eyes the distant shore of France with a mildly bitter expression. Now that they are travelling towards Spain, and doing so with relative ease, he almost wishes that they were ashore, surreptitious and hugger-mugger. It would be a far slower means of travel; but at least he would be less in dread of the end of it.

It is not his desire to win back his honours that his fears are quelling; no, he would walk to the ends of the earth to regain them. Instead, he is bemused at the shocking change in Queen Mary's demeanour. Where is that political acumen that a life at a court should have instilled in her? It is as though she has abandoned it and set her entire focus upon matters of a religious bent. How could someone so intelligent be such a fool?

He has always known that his daughter was a firm pragmatist - she was never taught to act without considering the consequences of doing so, even though her life's course was utterly changed by one who seemed utterly lacking in such considerations. Rather than drive her subjects to unseat her daughter through repressive tactics, she instead accommodated the religious sensibilities of _all_ of them, and thus held the kingdom together when others might have driven it to ruin. For all his anger at her, he cannot avoid a grudging admiration for her tenacity and success; and, now that he is forced to think upon it, a dismay that his impatience and anger drove him to lose a share of that good fortune.

Thomas Boleyn has never been a man to wilfully fool himself; all that he has done in his life has been carefully thought through and carried out with precision and care. The only obstacle to that progress was one of his own progeny - there's the irony - and now he is wondering what the hell he has done.

The sound of footsteps approaching gives him cause to turn his head. For the first time in all their years of enforced companionship, he does not scowl at the sight of Brandon.

"She is with her rosary again." He sighs, tiredly.

"Surely even Tunstall is getting tired of the confessions and masses she demands." Boleyn grunts, "Does she expect the entire English court to do likewise should she rule it?"

"I do not understand it. She was not so bent upon matters religious when she departed; faithful, yes - but not like this."

"She is a woman. Who knows how her mind works."

Brandon shakes his head, "In all of her trials, her faith has been that secure haven in which she has been able to find refuge. In all that she has lost, she still has that."

"To this degree? It is as though she has abandoned all but religion. Even good sense!"

His expression falls a little, and Brandon steps forth to lean upon the rail alongside Boleyn, "I think I am not alone in wondering what the hell we have done. I promised her father that I would set things right for England by setting his true daughter upon the throne - but now I fear to do so. Her only thought is to stamp out heresy, restore England to Rome, re-establish the monasteries and thrust her subjects back into the old ways both spiritual and temporal."

"England is no longer like that." Boleyn reminds him, "Even in Henry's day, men were finding new ways to achieve and improve themselves; talent was becoming an asset as much as nobility. Cromwell and my daughter have, between them, worked to extend that. While there are still nobles upon the Council, how many of them are men of common blood who have been elevated to a peerage? If Queen Mary seeks to overturn that, she shall lose England at a stroke - and she has stated clearly to all who shall listen that she shall do so."

"I wonder if she thinks that she has failed God." Brandon muses, "She attempted to claim England, and win her subjects back for Rome - and failed. She could not counter the reformation in Sweden, and instead was driven out of her home by the order of her own son. Her greatest aspiration had been to restore her mother's faith in England, for she had never learned the political skills that one must master if one is to rule well."

"She learned them in Sweden." Boleyn reminds him, "From what I have heard, she understood _most_ well how to rule a kingdom, and Gustav's subjects were more than willing to turn a blind eye to her retention of her faith."

They lapse into silence. This is what they wanted - what they have worked for from the moment they set sail from Hastings. Now that they have it, however, they are both wishing that they had not.

* * *

As he prepares yet another communion meal, Tunstall seems oblivious to the concerns of his colleagues up on deck. Perhaps he should be - but his relief to finally be able to wear the purple again, to be called 'your Grace' and to see to the needs of someone more appropriate to his ecclesiastical state is far stronger. Besides, it is never a hardship to celebrate communion, is it?

Kneeling at her _prie dieu_ , Mary clasps her hands together and murmurs the _pater noster_ again. Her celebration of communion twice each day, along with matins and compline at the start and end is an atonement for her dreadful failures to protect the subjects of two realms from the scourge of heresy. Surely it is the primary responsibility of God's anointed ruler to ensure that their realm is safely cared for and their subjects shall enter Heaven? Only then should matters of an earthly bent be considered. No: as soon as England is safely restored to Rome, and heresy has been rooted out once and for all, then - and only then - she can get to work on creating an England that shall lead the way as a bastion of the Church in an expanding world that needs to be brought to Christ.

The work that her late lord had done to expand Sweden's wealth for both those of the upper classes and those of the lower are all very well - but what is that if they are denied the riches of the next life thanks to their heresy? Her brow furrows suddenly as her heart is stabbed with grief over his loss. Immediately, her thoughts of counter-reformation are swallowed up in an impassioned plea for the repose of his soul. That is the worst of it - the knowledge that his heresy shall keep him from God's holy table, and thus they shall not be reunited when He calls her home. For all the rest of her days, she shall plead for his restoration to Grace; and no one in England shall be placed in that cruel position ever again, " _Requiem aeternum dona ei, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat ei. Resquiat in pace. Amen_."

Behind her, Helena kneels loyally, for she has become accustomed to her Queen's devotional activities, but the remainder of her women are English, and unused to such excessive piety. The requirement to be upon their knees for such extensive portions of the day impinges upon their other duties, and is undertaken with barely concealed resentment at someone who seems so utterly mired in her faith that she has lost all sight of everything else. Mary seems not to notice - or, if she does, she ignores it - but to the men who are the first of her Council, it is a painful warning of how England shall respond should she demand the same of her subjects.

_I shall win England back for Christendom, Holy Father,_ she promises in the depths of her heart, _the harlot and all who have betrayed my realm shall pay for their sin with their lives. Their evil shall be cleansed by fire and sword; I give you my word as your humble servant and truly chosen Queen._ _As I pray for the soul of my beloved late lord, I pray that they shall see the error of their ways before such a cleansing must come to pass; but if they do not, I shall not shrink from implementing their just punishment_.

Communion completed, she rises and crosses herself. Only then does she emerge from her cabin to make her way to the deck. So much to be done - but she has her council, she shall soon be in Spain where her cousin shall offer her aid, and God is most assuredly upon her side. Just a few more days, and she shall be ashore: ready to commence her recovery of her Realm.

* * *

For all its rattling and bumping, Cromwell has no complaints about the carriage that has been secured for his use. The rain is no longer a deluge, but is instead a tiresome thin drizzle that seems like nothing much while it hangs in the air like a mist - but contrives to leave all that it touches sodden and cold. The escape from that damp chill has spared him the worst pain in his hip, but his companions are most assuredly the dullest of company. Rich might not require ginger to settle his stomach, but he has instead dropped off to sleep, slumped against the cushioned side of the vehicle where he emits short, squeaky snores; while Wiltshire's grey complexion is more than sufficient indication that there shall be no conversation from him for the duration of the journey.

With little else to do, he reviews his plans for their destinations once they are at Exeter. They shall continue on to Plymouth where Elizabeth shall review the fleet - such as it is - and cross the Tamar to stay at the home of Sir Richard Edgcumbe in the parish of Calstock.

The Queen shall remain at the house of Kosheyl - an odd name, taken from the language of the county - for a month, where Filipe shall meet with the commissioners who are overseeing the trading agreements with the owners of the extensive tin mines in the region.

That, however, is at least a week away as they are yet to reach Exeter, having departed Barrington Court only a day ago.

Instead he allows himself to brood over their absent problem. The last missive Rich received from the unwitting Norfolk arrived just as they were departing Wulfhall, proclaiming that Mary had reached Genoa, and was residing temporarily for a peppercorn rent in a grand Palazzo while Boleyn negotiated passage on a ship. Knowing the skill of his Regent's father, Cromwell is quite certain that Mary is either aboard ship, or quite possibly even landed in Spain by now. His frustration at not knowing tempered by the equal knowledge that he has taken all the steps that he can to aid the Queen as she prepares to meet a threat that remains an ephemeral wisp of dread possibility.

The carriage lurches as a wheel falls into a rut, jerking Rich out of his doze and prompting a weak groan from Wiltshire as his stomach lurches in union with their transport.

"Out of the window if you must, my Lord." Cromwell advises, dryly.

Sitting up, Rich attempts to persuade the scrunched hair on the right side of his head to lie flat again, "Where are we?"

"God alone knows. I am relieved however that, wherever we are, we are out of the rain."

"As am I."

"I am not." Wiltshire mumbles, sickly, "God; once I am out of this damned carriage, I shall never sit in it again."

"I have more of that ginger tincture." Rich offers, helpfully.

Wiltshire groans, and leans out of the window.

"I think he does not like the ginger tincture." Cromwell observes, though not without sympathy. He rummages in a small satchel on the seat alongside, "I have some brandewine here, perhaps a finger of that might help."

The sound of hoofbeats outside the carriage captures his attention, and he looks out to see one of the senior chamberers, "My Lord, we shall shortly arrive at the Bishop's Court."

Thank God.

They shall not be there for long - just two nights before moving on to the grand Bishop's Palace at Bishopsteignton, west of the city of Exeter, though they shall stop at the City to visit the great Cathedral Church before continuing to enjoy the hospitality of Bishop Vesey. That shall be an interesting stay - for Vesey is as firmly conservative as he, Cromwell, is for reform, though they have set their greater differences aside and thus are able to enjoy friendly discourse most of the time. The religious settlement has spared him the need to resign his Bishopric, though it remains a threat that he occasionally airs if feeling particularly discontented.

The Court is a magnificent structure, once held by the bishops of Exeter amongst many luxurious properties around the Holy See, but recently purchased by Sir John Russell, who is keen to host his Queen personally as she travels to inspect the fleet whose construction he has been overseeing. Cromwell smiles to himself; Russell has no idea that her Majesty intends to reward him for his service by raising him to an Earldom while she is here.

Lady Wiltshire is already awaiting her husband as he emerges from their halted carriage with an expression that is half wretchedness, half relief to finally be still. She makes excellent work of concealing her sympathetic amusement at his discomfort, while the chamberers confer with their counterparts from the House to find out where the couple shall be resting their heads tonight.

"My Lord," One of the retinue approaches Rich, "I have received correspondence from London for your attention."

Cromwell and Rich share a bemused expression, until he turns the folded paper over to see the scarlet wax of the seal, "Ah. He is in London at the moment. I suppose his town house requires attention, seeing that he has not lived in it for near on a decade."

Rather than open it immediately, Rich conceals it in a satchel of his own, and sets to work overseeing the removal of his own baggage to the chambers that have been set aside for him. Being Officers of State, they shall be accommodated in the House - but many of the entourage shall be spending the night under canvas.

It is nearly two hours before Cromwell is free to call upon his colleague, who is seated in a rather fine oriel that grants views across a great parkland towards the City of Exeter, from which rise the twin towers of the great cathedral church amidst a sea of tiled and thatched roofs. Rich says nothing, but instead hands over the letter.

_My Lord._

_Her Majesty the Queen has landed at Alméria, and is currently residing just outside the city while her train is prepared to convey her to Granada. I have not yet been advised as to his Imperial Majesty's intentions, though he shall not eschew the requirements of filial courtesy. We are certain that he shall welcome her and offer the aid of the Empire in her quest to regain England. Thus I advise that there is every chance that a fleet shall depart from Spain either before the year is out, or after the winter has passed._

_It is best, I think, to advise the Harlot that the true Queen of England has remained helpless at Genoa for the time being; thus she and her brat shall be caught unawares when God's fleet sails along the Channel to claim England for the rightful daughter of the late King._

_Thos._

"He seems less keen to apply his name to his correspondence, now that it is becoming singularly dangerous." Cromwell comments, "Though if he truly thinks that Charles shall be pleased to find his evicted cousin knocking upon his door in search of accommodation, he is a fool. There are too many treaties and agreements that he has no wish to abrogate for him to be as delighted as Norfolk believes."

"I suspect he does not truly believe that to be so, Thomas." Rich shakes his head, "Even he is not so wilfully blind to the political realities of England and her relations with her neighbours. His words are deliberately optimistic, rather than foolishly so. Should Mary fail, then she shall never come again - and he shall never reclaim the prestige that he lost when his faction was toppled. It may also be that he shall be aware of the risk to his head should that occur."

"He is also fooling himself if he thinks it possible to assemble and provision an invasion fleet in mere weeks," Cromwell adds, "but then, he is a soldier, not an admiral. I think it unlikely that a fleet shall depart before the end of the year, once winter is past."

"Assuming that they can find enough ships to carry an army of sufficient size to take England."

"They shall almost certainly assume that England's catholic subjects shall rally to their cause, Richard. For all their wisdom, the Princes of Europe seem unable to appreciate that England's catholics are Englishmen first, and catholics second. For all their faith, they shall not appreciate the arrival of a foreign army intent upon invasion of their land, or the likelihood that England shall become an outpost of Spain."

"For myself, I should prefer it if we were not obliged to evidence that theory." Rich smiles, then looks out of the window, "Of course, if Charles does not support her, then we shall most certainly not have to."

Cromwell nods, "Thus we continue as though nothing were happening. We shall inform their Majesties, and proceed to Plymouth."

"And I shall - if her Majesty is in agreement - advise Norfolk that the English court is entirely unaware that Mary is on the move."

They collectively turn at the sound of a knock upon the door, "My Lords, supper shall be served shortly."

Cromwell rises, "In which case, I shall change. Until later, Richard."

* * *

Brandon attempts as best he can to conceal his embarrassment at his hopeless inability to understand a word being spoken by the City officials of Alméria. Boleyn, of course, seems to have no difficulty, and the Queen is equally capable of understanding them. It is only a minor relief to know that neither Helena, Nils nor her Majesty's English ladies can understand the conversation either.

The tone of voice, however, is worrying. They are polite, deferential - but also vaguely uncomfortable at her presence. The overall impression he gains from them is that the Emperor is not at all pleased that they are there, and they have no idea how to communicate that to his cousin. He shall grant her shelter, that is assured; but he shall not be as welcoming as they have been assuming.

Eventually, the conversation ends, and they are permitted to proceed. Boleyn's face is reddened with anger, though Mary seems surprisingly unconcerned. Frustrated at his ignorance, Brandon has no option but to follow as they make their way through the narrow, cobbled streets to a shockingly dilapidated Palacio which serves to darken Boleyn's temper all the more.

He still says nothing as Mary dismounts from her horse, enters the building and again drops to her knees to thank God for her arrival in her mother's lands. Prayers complete, she rises again and turns to the rather battered looking steward that has come to greet them, talks to him awhile. This done, she turns back to her Councillors, "Thank you for your care and attention, my Lords. I shall retire and refresh myself before we sup." Beckoning her ladies, she sweeps away with a regal air that seems most out of place in such inauspicious surroundings.

"What was said at the Quayside?" Brandon immediately draws Boleyn aside.

"The Emperor has agreed only to house her. Nothing more. We are to present ourselves at his palace in Granada, but whether he shall permit her to stay there, or grant her an estate elsewhere was not advised. Indeed, they seem almost entirely unprepared for her arrival."

Brandon frowns, surely not all of their messages went astray? Then he sighs; no: of course they did not. They arrived, and the Emperor was not pleased, but was instead appalled.

"He does not want her here." Boleyn snaps, "Her presence is tolerated merely upon the grounds that to do otherwise would be a violation of filial hospitality. It is his preference that she accept accommodation at her grandmother's palace in Zaragoza, and live there in quiet obscurity."

"She seems not to share your anger at such a snub."

"She has chosen to believe that God shall urge the Emperor to change his mind. Though I suspect she shall need rather more earthly aid if she is to do that. Already she intends to petition the Archbishop of Granada as soon as she reaches the Alhambra, for she is to journey there first to pay respects to her cousin."

"And she thinks that he shall win the day for her?"

"He is newly appointed, and eager to show his religious stripes. I have no doubt that they shall make this a religious enterprise - and how can the Emperor stand against God's will? If she has half a mind, she shall accept the offer of the palace at Zaragoza and keep her counsel for a year at least. Should the winds of politics shift, then perhaps the Emperor shall be more interested in setting her upon England's throne than he is at this moment."

Brandon shakes his head, "You saw her - both in Pomerania, and aboard ship. She has set her heart upon taking England as quickly as she can do so. It is, to her at least, a task set upon her by God to overcome her failures in both England and Sweden; furthermore, she sees it as her duty to rescue Englishmen from heresy as she could not do with her Swedish subjects."

Boleyn looks likely to lose his temper, but instead sags, "And that is what shall lead her to disaster. Her bitterness at all that has struck her seems to have resolved into a religious fervour that naught can overcome. I have no doubt that, should we speak out against any plan that is truly foolish, she shall look to others who shall not. Our loyalty shall count for nothing in the face of acquiescence by flatterers."

"You underestimate her political intelligence. She shall not do so."

"You think so? She is as much her father's daughter as her mother's. He destroyed men who would not bend to his will - no matter how right they were. Thus she bears her mother's piety and her father's temper. If we cannot give her what she seeks, she shall look for others to do so instead. I can find a new career - can you?"

Brandon stares at his colleague, dismayed. No - she would not do such a thing; not to those who have served her loyally when all others turned away. Her mother appreciated loyalty - and that cannot have been set aside by her father's tendency to betray the faith of others…

"We shall do what we can to protect her from herself." Boleyn muses, "That she shall want to invade England is inevitable - but perhaps we shall be able to persuade her that tomorrow is not the best time."

"I have been a soldier. That shall be my task." Finally - something useful that he can do. Assuming, of course, that she shall listen to him. Based on his experiences since she landed in Rostock, however, he is not at all sure.

* * *

Elizabeth is seated under her canopy of estate, while a parade of men in their best garments process through the street bearing flags and banners in her honour. So far she has been welcomed with two feasts, a festival of song, six new gowns, a rope of pearls and gifts of fine victuals to serve at her table while she is in residence at Kosheyl once she crosses the river. In return, she has granted gifts of monies to three infirmaries, six poorhouses and seen to the serving of a fine dinner for the population of a small sequence of almshouses to which the residents have retired after a long period of service in the fishing fleets.

Anne has kept her distance from these festivities, allowing her daughter to emerge from the mildly tainted shade she has cast as Regent. No matter how hard she tries, she is still considered in some quarters to be a harlot who overthrew a lawful Queen. Now that Elizabeth is coming into a marriageable age, the legacy of her parentage is a particular danger; so she is always - always - accompanied by her ladies, and her time spent with Filipe is carefully watched. He is her betrothed - but nonetheless, the suggestion that they are already carnally involved is one that she is keen to avoid.

The City Fathers have been delightfully welcoming - though that is quite likely to be thanks to the extra funds coming into their coffers to pay for the work at the dockyards. The natural haven of the Sound is ideal to house the vessels that shall serve for either trade or war, and not a few of them are already complete, including those that have hitherto been concealed in the smaller havens around the coast of England. To all intents and purposes, the new ships are solely for trade in order to benefit from the agreements with Portugal; with the primary tin mines scattered across the two counties of Devonshire and Cornwall, Plymouth is by far the best port to handle the increased shipping. No one needs to know that, further upstream, a separate dockyard has been selected to assemble the artillery that the ships shall need should they be called into service for war.

The primary Privy Councillors are also seated to the rear of the Queen's rostrum, though it is more a courtesy to Cromwell, who is no longer able to stand for long periods of time. Concealing that infirmity in a show of privilege for the noblemen of the Council was Elizabeth's idea, as she is fond of her Lord Chancellor and has no wish to cause him unnecessary discomfort. The Lord High Admiral, newly ennobled as the first Earl of Bedford, sits alongside the Queen and her royal guest. This is his forte, of course - and he shall guide a reduced royal party as they make their way around the gathering of vessels in the sound aboard a gaily decorated barge rowed by 28 oarsmen, which shall eventually be conveyed to London as a gift for future royal use.

"Thanks be to God that the weather is benign," Rich comments as they rise from their seats to follow the parade of sailors down to the quay, "I am able to ride in a carriage, but the sea is not my friend."

Cromwell smiles cheerfully, "I am little better, I fear, Richard. I have sailed, but never with great pleasure."

The cabin of the barge is surprisingly spacious, sufficient to accommodate the Queen, her betrothed, Bedford, and a number of the higher placed Aldermen alongside the Mayor. Another barge, smaller but no less well appointed, shall follow with a mighty escort of skiffs draped with yet more flags and flowers. Seated in the enclosed cabin, Anne's expression is bittersweet; her daughter is taking her place as Queen, which is a good thing, but in doing so, her mother is becoming superfluous, and is no longer expected to stand at her side.

"This is what I wanted." She says, quietly, as Cromwell sits alongside her, "But still I am embittered by the relegation."

"It is good that you accept it, Majesty." He answers, sagely, "Your time as Regent is not yet done, however. There is one more great enterprise that shall require your leadership to be resolved."

There is no need to ask what he means. "Mary."

He equally does not need to nod.

She looks up and beckons to Rich, who takes another seat to her left. He also does not need to ask why he has been summoned, "She has reached Spain, Majesty - but we do not yet know whether she has arrived at the Emperor's Court. Until I have been advised of it, we are left only with speculation; which serves nothing, and no one."

"And what is your intended response?"

"To advise that you and the Court are entirely unaware, Majesty. If they are to set sail, then it would be helpful to suggest that they do so as soon as is possible. I understand that Mary is quite intent upon regaining England, so she shall push to invade as immediately as can be achieved. Thus we can have the weather upon our side, for she shall not appreciate that autumn is not the time to sail the channel in large numbers."

"Would we be prepared for such an invasion?" Anne asks him, quietly.

"I think so. If they choose to sail at a time that is not wise, then the weather shall do much of the work for us. It may be sensible to discuss the possibility with the men of this city - theoretically, of course - before I answer our traitor's letter."

It is not wise to continue their discussions in such a crowded venue, so Cromwell changes the subject, calling over one of the shipwrights to ask about the construction of the ship. Dull for the uninitiated, perhaps - but safer than talking about an invasion.

Amongst the gathering is the man that has been appointed to command a naval fleet. A tall, solidly built local man with a great bushy beard and a thick thatch of mouse-brown hair atop his head who answers to the name of Simeon Challacombe. Having served in the previous reign aboard the warships that sailed from England in Henry's service, he has been recommended as a skilled sailor who understands the waters of the Channel, and how to sail them well. While none yet know of the risk of an invasion from Spain, Challacombe has no illusions that no one shall ever come against them again. He has already discussed - theoretically - how he would employ the carracks available to him against an enemy fleet, and Bedford has been most impressed; despite being the only member of the council who understood what he was talking about.

He has been listening with half an ear to the discussions about the newer vessels, and smiles approvingly, "They're good ships, Majesty. They move like caravels, and they sit in the water well.

"How would you use them against an invading fleet, sir?" Anne asks, hoping that he shall not be _too_ technical in his answer.

"It depends on how they come against us, Ma'am." He muses, "The sets of guns we have could fire in one go from one side, then we can turn about and fire again while the used guns are reloaded. We can use the waters of the channel to our advantage - my captains know the best havens to use for shelter if they need it - all we would need is a fleet to engage; but it seems that God, and the foreign Kings, have no wish to oblige me."

Cromwell smiles, "Perhaps so - but I am glad that they do not. They cannot afford to, after all. It would be churlish to wish bankruptcy upon our neighbours, would it not?"

Challacombe laughs cheerfully, and their conversation moves on to other matters.

By the time the barges return to the shore, Cromwell is no more able to understand how the ships are better than those that came before - but he is contented that they are sufficiently numerous, well built, and commanded, to see off whatever invasion force Mary shall bring.

* * *

Perhaps the first indication that they are not entirely welcome in Granada is the lack of a large escort at the nearest gate in the city wall to approach the monumental pile of the Alhambra, where Mary's cousin Charles is in residence.

From a distance, the great palace of the Nasrids seems to glisten in the sunlight, a crowning jewel of the reconquest of Spain from the heathens that had taken it. Closer to, however, Brandon is dismayed to see the number of soldiers, both mounted and on foot, is hardly sufficient for a woman of such state as the Queen of England.

Mary, on the other hand, seems quite content to ignore the implied insult, and immediately greets the captain of the tiny honour guard in his native tongue with great courtesy and gratitude. If Charles is to be churlish, then she most certainly shall not be.

Behind, Boleyn is not so accommodating, "God help us. The Emperor does not want us here - it could not be clearer that he is doing as little as he can. He is more keen upon not irking England than welcoming his own Cousin."

"He shall think otherwise once she is upon her proper throne." Brandon hisses back, _sotto voce_ , "Furthermore, he shall find a true Queen with whom he can truly form an alliance against France."

"And you believe that?"

Brandon finds he cannot answer.

Their arrival at the great _Puerta de la Justicia_ is no less insulting. The gates are closed, obliging the Captain to batter the hilt of his sword upon them, and are opened only after a considerable pause. Even Mary, by now, appreciates that her arrival is not the anticipated pleasure that she had expected.

Matters do not improve as the small column makes its way towards the grand buildings that display a taste and construction utterly alien to Mary's northern European sensibilities. The Court seems not to have emerged to greet their master's cousin, and not even a chamberlain seems to be in evidence. Surely she is not expected to knock upon the door of the palace like a beggar?

It seems not. As they approach a pair of massive doors, over which is an arch decorated with pierced stone in unusual geometric patterns, they open to reveal a soberly dressed individual wearing a spectacularly bejewelled chain of office. Flanked by two guards, he bows with a minimal degree of courtesy, though his words are Spanish, and seem polite enough.

Brandon exchanges a glance with Boleyn, who quietly translates, "He has welcomed her Majesty to the Imperial Court, and shall escort us to apartments where we shall remain until summoned. It seems likely that it shall be later today."

"He called her 'Majesty', then?"

"Yes - but whether it be Majesty Queen of Sweden or Queen of England, I cannot say."

Mary's expression is no longer polite, or accommodating of the continual rudeness that has been heaped upon her. Instead, she is cold and curt as she thanks the man, and her face displays her displeasure. The weakness of her position, however, is such that the man upon whom she lays that glance seems to care not one whit.

" _Deseo recibir la Santa Cena. Envía al arzobispo a mi presencia_." She does not make it a request.

"What has she said?" Brandon asks.

"She demands to celebrate communion, and asks to see the Archbishop of Granada." Boleyn answers, "Though do not tell Tunstall that - he shall be most dismayed to be overlooked in such matters."

"He shall survive it. She intends to protest to him, does she not?"

"I think it likely."

Leaving their horses to the care of grooms, Mary's party is guided through colonnaded halls of fabulous beauty, though the decoration is unusual in that it shows no beasts, or flora. The eventual apartments are of reasonable aspect, though clearly of lesser state than those of the royal family. Ambassadors might be housed here, but the rooms are hardly fit for a Queen. God above, Charles is truly angry that she has come here. Even as he takes in the extraordinary decoration, Brandon feels a nervous sense of discomfort in his vitals. It is a misstep; it has to be. The Emperor is already at the card table, and has dealt a hand that Mary cannot hope to match. If she demands that he help her to invade England, then he shall be free to laugh in her face without fear. Why did they not take steps to discover the Empire's current dealings with England? If he has signed a treaty and they know it not, then they shall be fortunate to even be permitted to enter Zaragoza. Mary is dangerously close to being consigned to a convent, while God alone knows what shall happen to them.

The shadows are drawing in as the awaited summons finally arrives. In the several hours that have elapsed, Brandon has bathed, changed and fretted, wondering whether he shall end the day in a dungeon. Mary, on the other hand, seems to have been remarkably busy, and is awaiting them with a tall man dressed in garb that proclaims him to be a bishop. This must be the archbishop of Granada, then.

"Gentlemen," Mary's expression is almost beatific, "I have conferred with his Grace, and he is in agreement that we have God's blessing upon our enterprise; furthermore, he shall set forth our claims to his Holiness in Rome to seek a Bull granting us his authority to reclaim our just rights and inheritances - stolen by a whore and an illegitimate child. With God's help, we shall overcome my cousin's scepticism of our aims, and thus achieve His work. This is not a matter for temporal concerns, or political cowardice. England is mine, and I shall reclaim her from those who have stolen her."

Boleyn and Brandon exchange a nervous glance, while behind them Tunstall looks rather pale. Perhaps he, too, had thought that her determination to grasp a throne forever beyond her reach would be stopped here. For all his determination to avoid political strife with England, there shall be only so much pressure that the Emperor can accept before he shall capitulate. If he does so out of resentment, than it shall be no better than if he had refused.

"If God is with us," Brandon says, firmly, as though he is attempting to convince himself as much as anyone else, "then there are none who shall be able to stand in our way."

"That is my thought." Mary agrees, "And thus I can commence my enterprise of England. The Concubine, and her child, shall falter in the face of God's will and strength, and the lost sheep of my realm can be restored to the fold."

Boleyn shudders; Charles has regularly ignored the Pope when it has suited him to do so - but in such circumstances, how can he refuse now? Should a Bull emerge from Rome, then it shall be done. They shall sail from Spain to reclaim England - and he must overthrow his own granddaughter from her throne.

For the first time, he truly wishes that he could do otherwise; but what's done is done. He shall return to England, and his daughter's line shall be snuffed out forever.


	52. Preparations to Sail

The council chamber is airy and bright with an early autumn sun, though the dry heat of summer has barely departed, and all present are relieved to enjoy the open arches of the colonnade that looks out to a small court where a fountain plays charmingly.

The human atmosphere, is far less benign.

None of the men at the table are pleased with the document that was received from Rome this morning, delivered by fast horse from Alméria by two Swiss mercenaries employed in Rome. It seems that not only Archbishop Logroño has been active upon the part of a woman whose presence is both unwelcome and something of an embarrassment.

"We have no choice." The man at the head of the table is dressed with a magnificence that defies the warmth of the air: velvets and furs with a cascade of jewels over which his regally prominent chin - well, regal in his opinion - points distinctively, "We shall have to furnish the wretched woman with a fleet. All of Christendom expects it of us; secure in the knowledge that it shall cost them nothing in either gold or diplomatic relations. I have neither the men nor the gold to fund such an enterprise."

"An 'Enterprise of England'." one of his councillors agrees, his tone mocking, "For all her heresy, the girl upon the throne makes no wars and seeks only to secure the safety of her own realm. There is no aid from England against the Turk - but there is equally no aid from England to the French who would seek to wrest Milan from your possession, Majesty."

Charles, fifth of that name, scowls, "God knows that, were I sufficiently stocked with ships and gold, I would willingly take that recalcitrant island back for the Pope; but I am not. The Turk is a far greater threat to us than a rabble of heretics that is closer to Francis than to me. Is it not of greater concern that Suleiman's forces could reach Viena in but a day's ride? For all their heresy, the English at least are Christians of a sort. The heathens to the east must be repelled - and thus I do not have the time or the funds to intervene in a squabble between two ridiculous women over which of them wears a crown."

Another of his councillors nods, "She is keen to depart as soon as ships are in port and stocked."

"Then let her." Charles snaps, "If God is as with her as she claims, then He shall tell the sea to be quiet, and the storms not to come. She shall have to make do with whatever hulks can be mustered, and whatever captains are ashore."

"We shall not be obliged to field too many men at arms." Someone else adds, "She is convinced that England's catholics shall welcome her, and thus rise to fight at her side."

"As they did the first time she tried? The weather has dried: my sources say that the late August period was sufficiently dry to save the harvest, thus the people shall not face famine this year. With food in their bellies, they do not care who rules them. She is unlikely to even make landfall."

Charles shrugs, "Give her what she asks for - but spend as little as can be spent: I have obligations elsewhere. If she succeeds, then we shall claim the credit. If she fails, we shall disown her as a deluded fool. Either way, I shall not have my diplomatic exertions shattered by my cousin. Dispatch her to Cadiz with all haste - she and her sycophants can play with their ships, while I am free to continue with more pressing obligations." He looks across at one of his older councillors, "Mendoza, see to it."

"Yes, Majesty."

* * *

Cromwell swallows the physic that his apothecary has mixed for him with a grimace. It is in sweetened wine, but nonetheless its bitterness is too strong to be concealed. Filling his glass with more of the rather good fortified wine recently imported from Portugal, he attempts as best he can to obliterate the foul bitterness, before returning his attention to his work.

He has been back at his desk in Whitehall for barely a week, though he is pleased at the success of their progress to the west. The increased work and pay for the tin miners seems to have won their loyalty, and Filipe has certainly won the respect of the shipwrights of Plymouth. Even though it has not been made public that he is intended to marry Elizabeth, rumours are inevitable; and his many observers have been reporting that people are not poorly disposed to the prospect of his being her Consort.

Being a young man with noble heritage, but no inheritance, Filipe has been eager to seek out a purpose in life that shall be worthy of his rank and prospects. That he seems to have found it in England could not have come at a better time, for the news from Spain is less welcome.

Even without Norfolk's unwitting assistance, the publication of a bull authorising Mary to invade England, and ordering all of Christendom to give her aid and support in doing so is common knowledge. The fact that she is intending to approach them with a foreign army has certainly ensured that English catholics have no interest in welcoming her; and he, Cromwell, has taken great care to ensure that rumours have spread that she is to marry Philip, the son of the King of Spain, and give him England as a Spanish province. A simple ruse; but the word coming back to him is that it is believed, and even the most piously catholic Englishfolk are appalled at the prospect.

His manservant opens the door to admit Rich, who holds another folded paper in his hand, and Cromwell looks up at him in disbelief, "God above, can you smell wine? I pour out a finger and you are at my door."

"It is a particular talent of mine." Rich grins at him, taking a proffered seat and accepting a proffered cup of the wine, "I have news."

Cromwell waits until they are alone, "Tell on."

"Work has commenced upon gathering a fleet. It seems that no one dares to advise Mary that a naval invasion at this time of the year is utter madness. The Emperor has appointed one Nicólas Mendoza to oversee its commissioning. I know nothing of his abilities, but it seems that he has no experience at such activities, but is known to be a capable administrator. The informant seems confident that all is progressing as it should; though I suspect that it is more wishful thinking than good sense."

"As do I." Cromwell agrees, "The word from Spain is that any ship that is capable of at least floating is being sought. The great galleons of Spain are engaged in carrying gold from the new world, while those of lesser aspect are in the east of the Mediterranean, seeking to engage the Turk. They shall be lucky to secure anything greater than old cogs and carracks that are suited for cargo at best. Assuming that they can be fitted to carry guns, to do so shall take such time that the earliest they can put out shall be Autumn; or possibly as late as Christmastide, thus leaving them at the mercy of winter storms."

"Surely she is not such a fool as to think that she can put to sea in winter?"

"She might be - for she knows much of her aspirations, and nothing at all of navigation; but those who _do_ know seem unwilling to rein her in. I fear that the issuing of a Bull has seen to that. A clause at the end intimates that those who hinder the plan shall be questioned by the inquisition over the depth of their faith."

"Hell, it is as though the Pope and the Emperor _want_ her to fail." Rich is scandalised.

"More, I think, a desire to keep her from badgering them about it. Now that she is in Spain, her desire is in her grasp and it is no longer of interest to her to consider a more contemplative existence. It is as though she has wilfully blinded herself to the likely probability that she shall fail."

"At least they are unaware that we are prepared for them."

A knock upon the door summons the manservant again, who accepts a note from a steward, "my Lords, her Majesty has asked to see you."

"Both of us?" Rich asks, still cradling the cup of wine with a reluctance to set it down.

"Yes, my Lord. The steward was to attend your quarters next."

"Set down your wine, Mr Rich." Cromwell smiles, as he reaches for his cane to lever himself out of the chair, "I have no doubt that it shall not run away while we are engaged elsewhere."

Anne is present in Elizabeth's Privy Chamber when they are shown in, though she does not speak. It is not her place now.

"Is there news from Spain?" the Queen asks, tensely.

Of course. They have returned from the progress now, and it is inevitable that her mind shall be back upon the safety of her realm.

"Freshly arrived this morning, Majesty." Cromwell advises, smoothly. She still does not know the identity of the man with whom Norfolk is corresponding, "It was delivered to me not an hour ago."

"I know about the Bull, Mr Cromwell; but then, if I did not, that would make me the only soul in Christendom so ignorant."

"I have taken steps to ensure that your catholic subjects are not tempted to act, Majesty. I think it unlikely that they would do so, for they are free to worship and have shown no inclination to remove you from your throne. On the contrary, they are loyal to you as their Queen, and shall see any invasion as a foreign incursion that must be repulsed at all costs."

"For they are my true and loving subjects." She smiles at him, "and I love them for it."

"We are given to understand by our Ambassador to Spain that Mary has been granted the services of one of the Emperor's councillors, a man by the name of Nicólas Mendoza; though he is.” Cromwell continues "The gossip from his excellency's sources in the port of Alméria is that he is a capable administrator, but has no understanding of the requirements of an invasion fleet. Furthermore, the only admiral he has been able to employ to lead the expedition is elderly, and has not sailed for nearly twelve years. Equally, the expertise of this man is solely upon oceanic voyaging, for he was known in his time as a leader of treasure fleets. I am advised that Mendoza has not yet summoned the courage to advise her of his find." He has not needed Norfolk to retrieve _that_ morsel of information; the rumours are freshly arrived from Spain aboard a merchantman from one of their Ambassador's spies, supplemented by additional news gleaned by the Captain, who could understand the talk in the taverns of Cadiz.

"And her advisers do not stop her from being so foolish as to trust this man?" Anne asks, bemused.

"They have no expertise to counter it." Rich reminds them, "The former Lord Brandon was a soldier, yes - but not a sailor. Equally the former Lord Wiltshire is an expert in diplomacy, not navigation. Even should they feel that matters are progressing inappropriately, they have not the knowledge to argue against it."

Elizabeth looks dismayed, "It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that this enterprise is doomed from the start. God have mercy - there shall be many men who shall lose their lives who did not need to. It is a price that I would wish not to have to pay for our safety."

"It may be that sense shall prevail." Cromwell adds, rather doubtfully. He is not surprised to see that no one else looks particularly hopeful either.

* * *

Mathew Baker is busy with dividers again, "I think that we shall not be safe to raise more than four sails upon the main mast, Highness."

"Nor I." Filipe agrees, "Too much sail is more dangerous than not enough. Better that the ship be slow than toppled by a rogue gust of wind. They shall be nimble in the ocean, however - almost as nimble as a _caravel_. We shall have to devise new means for them to fire their guns, for they shall turn quickly in the water."

Neither man is aware that the requirement for such vessels is more pressing than it had been when Filipe first arrived and started work upon improving the English fleet; and their discussions are thus theoretical.

The news from Kings Lynn has been most positive; the first ship to depart there from Wapping has performed admirably at sea, and thus two new vessels have already been laid down. The number of ships already afloat at Plymouth have been remodelled to the new design wherever possible, and the two have - between them - precipitated the creation of a naval fleet that is ready to protect England from any who might approach. The new ships, along with at least sixteen more being laid down at Deptford and Plymouth, shall not be ready until next year; but they are being built, and thus England shall share Portuguese trading routes, securing the wealth of both nations through the spice trade.

Their discussions are hasty, for Filipe shall be departing to return to Portugal in less than two weeks. Their friendship is firm, however, and they intend to continue their correspondence once he is back in Lisbon, though only Filipe is aware that he shall be away for a year at the most, before returning to marry the Queen.

Bedford is waiting to collect him as he emerges from the sheds, a barge bobbing gently at the nearby quay to ferry them back to Whitehall, "I shall miss him, I think, my Lord."

"God willing, Highness, you shall return and he shall have much to discuss with you."

"I shall also miss England." He adds, a little wistfully, though Bedford's smile suggests that he thinks it likely that it is Elizabeth he shall miss rather than her Realm. Only a fool could fail to see that their friendship has emerged from their correspondence and into their time together. For a betrothed couple to find such companionship together is the best that can be hoped for; so many lack that good fortune. Like all of her Council, Bedford is deeply fond of his young Queen, and shares that almost paternal wish for her to marry well, but also to find happiness in the transaction. His own marital fortunes have been favourable, but he has seen too many other unions faltering under the weight of resentment and misery thanks to the failure of the partners to find common ground in their marriage.

"I fear we must depart, Highness, if we are to pass London Bridge in safety." He says, eventually, as the sound of church bells striking the hour filters across the noise of the shipyard. Beside him, Filipe nods and follows him to the barge.

* * *

Boleyn makes his way through labyrinthine corridors, leading the Queen's visitors behind him and hoping to God that he is not going to get lost again. The Emperor's invitation to travel to Cadiz, where the remaining ships of his navy are berthed at present, was eagerly grasped by Mary, keen to accumulate a fleet and depart for England as soon as she may. Thus they were obliged to spend nearly a fortnight upon horseback in a dry landscape with little relief from a brutal sun. It would most assuredly have been easier to make the journey by sea; but the _Sangre de la Reina_ had departed Alméria three days after their arrival in Granada, and such was the damage to his purse from the cost of that voyage that Boleyn lacked sufficient funds to hire another vessel in its place.

The _Palacio_ that has been set aside for her Majesty's use is large, rambling and was once opulent. Now, however, its exterior majesty seems to be cosmetic only, for the interiors are crumbling, the plaster cracked, and the infinitesimally tiny tiles that have been used to pick out those strange designs so favoured by the heathens that once ruled this land are departing from the mortar in such numbers that it is impossible to traverse some corridors without crushing them to fragments beneath his feet.

The fountain in the courtyard plays amidst a tangle of weeds, but does at least offer a degree of comfort in the heat of the afternoon. Disguising his disgruntlement, Boleyn approaches Mary, who is absorbed in her book of hours in defiance of the determinedly moorish architecture around her, "Majesty, my apologies for interrupting your contemplations: his Grace of Alquezar is without. He has found a man to command your fleet."

Mary sets her text aside, and smiles; something that she seems to do only rarely these days, "Thank you, my Lord. Please show him in."

Nicólas Mendoza - for all the commands of his master - is an honourable man, and to deliver the grizzled old fool at his side to the Emperor's cousin, of Aragonese descent to match his own, seems a cruel deceit that he has taken more than a week of dithering to summon the nerve to face inflicting upon her. For her mission to succeed, she requires a skilled admiral to lead her invasion fleet; but they are all engaging the Turk, or traversing the great western ocean to bring back badly needed riches from the lands of the _Mexica_. The only man he has been able to persuade to undertake the Queen's great Enterprise of England has not sailed in nearly ten years; and, while brilliant in his day, his expertise rests more bringing treasure ships home than engaging in naval warfare.

The man that he introduces is grizzled and baked a remarkable shade of rust-brown by years of exposure to the unforgiving oceanic sun. Deferential to a fault, he bows deeply to Mary, who extends her hand for him to kiss, though his balance seems so attuned to the undulations of the waves that he wobbles, and almost falls, as he does so.

"This is Señor Narcís Parramon, your Majesty," Mendoza advises, as his companion steps back again, "a man of excellent reputation and many years of experience guiding the great treasure fleets of Spain through treacherous waters to bring them safely home."

He chooses not to notice that the Ambassador's expression is far more cynical than that of his Queen. It is, of course, understandable given the unprepossessing nature of Captain Parramon, who is shabbily dressed, unkempt and looks almost to be in his cups, so utterly attuned is he to a life upon ships - even after ten years back on shore.

To Mary, on the other hand, the man is a gift sent from God, "Captain, I am delighted to meet you. I am eager to commence my holy duty to regain my stolen crown and bring my poor subjects back to God's Church. It is my belief that God has chosen you for this great task - for why else would you be here when all others are elsewhere?"

Standing beside her, Boleyn struggles not to roll his eyes: is she truly so fixed upon matters religious that she cannot see any incident or decision any other fashion? It seems almost a disastrous mania that has wholly consumed her heart and mind; and no amount of persuasion or reason shall convince her otherwise. The discovery of this desiccated old man when no other captain would agree to even the most princely of bribes to lead their fleet is seen not as a desperate last throw of the dice, but instead a princely gift from the Almighty. Surely there was a time when she was wiser than this?

"Thank you, your Majesty." Parramon says, his voice thin and as rusty as his complexion, "I shall take you to England and win your crown back for you."

"Your first task shall be to aid my Lord Mendoza in the securing of ships to carry my to my home, and men to aid me in ousting the usurper and her sycophants."

"I shall see to it, great Queen."

Alongside the old man, Mendoza bows, his conscience somewhat stung by his deception. The best that they shall manage is a collection of vessels that are barely seaworthy, and the men who shall crew them likely to be convicts or nearly so. As with the better captains, the better men are engaged against the Turk.

As they withdraw, Mary turns to Boleyn, "Thank you, your Excellency. I am most pleased."

Dismissed, he bows and withdraws, leaving her to go back to her book.

Making his way through the corridors, Boleyn curses under his breath. Emerging into a small, unkempt garden, he finds Brandon sitting upon a bench and fidgeting with that ridiculous chain of office again; something he seems to be doing more and more these days. Being unable to communicate in anything other than the simplest Spanish sentences, he has not been present at the meeting, but he looks up, and his expression says more than words could.

"Mendoza has found a captain?"

Boleyn nods, "A grizzled old fool who has not sailed in ten years. No other Master would countenance the idea - not in this season."

"Then why do we not wait?"

"She will not. You know she will not. That we should wait until the year's turn and sail in the spring is anathema to her. Such is her determination to regain England that she believes that God shall carry her there upon waves of gold and pearls, that Englishmen shall drive their own brethren into the sea, and that England shall go back to the way it was when her mother was Queen. It is as though it has consumed her to the extent that she is blind to all other things."

"It must be done. I swore to her father that I would see her claim her rightful inheritance - it is a promise I cannot break."

"Christ's blood - are you as great a fool as she? Promises or no, we aim to impose her upon a realm that has not seen her in ten years or more. Do you think they shall welcome her with open arms? How can we be sure that we shall not spark an anarchy akin to that which followed the death of the first Henry?"

Brandon frowns at him, "What's done is done, Boleyn. If we are to act, then we must do so in unity; and hold faith with our Queen. I have entertained fears; but we have come to this point, and we have found friends to aid us…"

"Friends? Charles looks upon us as a stain, while Mendoza helps a child of the house of Trastámara out of childish sentiment. We have been abjured by any captain of skill or ability - and thus our proposed admiral has not sailed for as long as the Queen has been absent from her realm. In what way has God blessed this enterprise?"

Shaking his head, Boleyn departs, only to almost collide with one of the Spanish servants approaching with a folded paper in his hand. Accepting the document, he examines the seal: Norfolk. With an offer of more money, hopefully. His coffers are all but empty.

"What is it?" Brandon asks, immediately.

"I shall advise you when I have opened the blasted thing." He snaps back, crossly, breaking the seal. Reading it, he feels a sense of relief; more money. A lot more money. Now that Norfolk is aware that they have begun assembling an invasion fleet, he is prepared to assist in the payment for it.

"We can increase the bribes to persuade men of at least minimal skill to sail her Majesty's ships. Norfolk has dispatched funds to cover the cost." He reports, though - as he always does - he fails to hand the document over, "Our treacherous Councillor advises that a number of the newer Councillors would be willing to serve Queen Mary of England, though he states that he shall name them once she is ashore, for fear that his tidings might go astray. They shall be of little use to her without their heads."

"I presume that Rich desires to keep high office as much as his head in the new reign?" Brandon asks, cynically.

"I intend to ensure that he keeps neither." Boleyn shrugs, "He cannot be trusted - his behaviour proves it to be so. Norfolk would expect nothing less."

"Her Majesty might think otherwise; she shall see him as a man who has served her at great risk to himself."

"Not when she finds out how much it has cost to buy him."

Brandon shudders; it seems to him that Boleyn's interest in the success of the affair survives now only in terms of the prospect of avenging himself upon those who have crossed him. How Mary shall view such motives, he has no idea - but he shall find out when he draws her attention to them. Her reign shall be a new start for England: better to accomplish it without men of such base aspirations, and remove them as soon as she may.

* * *

Anne surveys the appalling disorder of her chambers: a mass of coffers, caskets, chamberers and stewards all busy around them as they gather together those items that she shall carry with her from Whitehall to Placentia. Advent is still more than a month away, but moving the Court from one palace to another takes a considerable time, as well as settling once there, so time is of the essence. She has spent the holiday of Christmastide under the roofs of Greenwich on so many occasions that it seems almost wrong to celebrate anywhere else; and thus the barges are being prepared to carry possessions, tapestries, gowns, papers and all manner of items that cannot be left behind when the Court moves from one Palace to another.

Elizabeth is more fortunate, in that she is walking in the gardens with her ladies, Castor and Pollux in tow, while Madame Astley oversees the packing of her accoutrements in her apartments. She could do likewise, of course; but Anne is well aware that her daughter is beginning to prefer the company of her own ladies when she is at leisure, and having her mother present is far less attractive a prospect than it was when she was a child.

"Majesty," A Steward is at her door, "My Lady Astley is without and asks to see you."

Anne smiles, "Of course, Michael; show her in."

The expression upon the face of Elizabeth's Chief Gentlewoman is benign, if a little despondent, and Anne smiles as she indicates a nearby chair, "Kat, please; do take a seat. Shall I call for some wine?"

"Thank you, no, Majesty. I think her Majesty would not thank me for approaching you, but now that his Highness of Portugal has departed for Portsmouth in order to return home, she is rather bereft, I fear."

Anne sighs, "That is not unexpected, alas. They delighted in one another's company; but as we have not revealed to England that he is to marry her, despite inevitable rumours, the need for her subjects to accept him demands that we introduce him to them with care. A foreign princess would be received without fear - but a foreign prince is another matter entirely. He has, however, left one gift for her that she shall be pleased to receive. A merlin falcon awaits her in the mews at Placentia. She shall enjoy hunting quail and snipe with it while she awaits his return in the spring."

"She shall appreciate the gift, I think, Majesty." Mistress Astley smiles, reassured, "I shall ask Mr Ascham and Mr Grindal to work together to challenge her so that the time passes quickly." Rising, she curtseys, "Thank you, Majesty. I shall return to packing, for there is still much to be done."

"As is the case here, Kat." Anne admits, eyeing the clutter with mild dismay.

Jane Wiltshire is busy in the great wardrobe, examining linens and setting aside any that require mending as Anne looks in, "Still busy, Jane?"

"I fear so, Majesty." She smiles back, "It is remarkable, is it not, the number of shifts one accumulates?"

"Particularly if one is royal." Anne laughs, "Forgive me, Jane; I am greatly afeared to be abroad unless secure in the knowledge that there are shifts aplenty in my wardrobe. Come, leave that work to one of the chamberers. Let us walk awhile; I have not had the opportunity to ask you how William is doing."

Jane's smile broadens at once at the offer of the chance to talk of her son, "He is most well, Majesty; his writing is becoming very pleasant to read, and his latin is improving apace. Mr Cheke is very pleased with his progress."

The two women emerge from the bedchamber arm in arm, talking of the happiness of being a mother, before seating themselves alongside the fireplace, where Jane pours out two small glasses of pear _eau de vie_ for them to sip at as their conversation continues.

"Majesty, his Grace the Lord Chancellor is without, accompanied by the Lord Treasurer; they seek an audience upon a matter of state."

Anne straightens at once. The term 'matter of state' has become their code for 'a matter of Mary'. Presumably Lord Rich has news from Arundel Castle, though it seems that the Duke has emerged to see to his other residences in the last few years, so his letters have come from a wider range of addresses than previously.

"I shall see how your chamberers are doing, Majesty." Jane smiles, rising to curtsey, "I suspect that there are matters of confidence of which I should remain ignorant."

"Forgive me, Jane. It is not that I do not trust you."

"I know, Majesty." She knows that well; she is one of that small group who are blessed with the absolute trust of both the Queen and the Regent. Sometimes, however, it is better to know nothing. Taking the glasses with her to be handed over for washing, she departs as Cromwell limps into the room, Rich in tow.

"Come, my Lord; seat yourself. I do not require you to stand in my presence." She bustles about, gathering chairs as Rich hastens to assist, startled at her sudden burst of unqueenly activity.

"Thank you, Majesty." He is used to her behaviour now, and does not object. It would make little difference if he did.

Once all are seated, she leans forward a little, "Tell me."

Rich shifts slightly in his seat, "Our source states that he has provided a great deal of additional monies, largely to coverthe exorbitant cost of transporting the lady from Genoa to Spain and the losses that ensued. She is now at Cadiz, awaiting the gathering of captains and ships to commence her enterprise, which she intends to undertake with all haste."

"At this time of the year?" Anne asks, astonished, "Is she mad? While his Highness's ship shall sail, it is but one vessel and one escort, and can seek shelter far more easily than a fleet."

"Since it has become clear that she is keen to accomplish a task that she is convinced that God has set upon her, and she lacks understanding of the logistical requirements to put a fleet to sea, I suspect that she is also convinced that she must act immediately. She has, after all, been obliged to wait for this opportunity for more than ten years. Our source has been advised by one of those travelling with the Lady that she has become singularly overtly religious since her departure from her land; and much of her determination to act precipitously is inspired by this." He pauses, and sighs, "I cannot presume to understand her thinking, Majesty; but it appears that she has been almost consumed by a mania of some kind. Even my source sees that, but has decided to indulge it, for he thinks that it shall make it easier for him to regain that which he has lost, and even to gain from it."

"He thinks to govern her?" Anne asks.

"He is who, and what, he is." Cromwell adds, "That which was taken from him was of great importance - were I in his position, I should be fooling myself to claim that I would not have thought the same, and acted in similar manner."

"And what of the Emperor?"

"My sources at the Court are unequivocal, Majesty." He answers, "The Emperor is most displeased, for he is committed elsewhere to other causes, and has neither the funds nor the interest to support any activity upon the lady's behalf. He has provided the services of a Councillor, but little else. Rumours at his Court claim that he expects nothing to happen - but that he is keeping the lady occupied until she comes to the same conclusion, and retires to some quiet house where she shall live out her days in obscurity."

"These funds shall almost certainly ensure that such an outcome does not occur." Rich adds, quietly, "the coffer that was dispatched to the lady's house contained a shockingly enormous sum; though great care was taken to ensure that it did not look that way, so that brigands would not be tempted by it. If the Emperor shall not pay for the enterprise, then our Source intends to make up the shortfall."

They lapse into silence, as Anne takes in the news: Norfolk is so determined to regain his ascendancy that he is willing to indulge a woman who appears to have lost her reason in order to bring her back to England and become a power behind her throne. If he can do so, then it shall most assuredly be worth the expenditure.

But to come now? In this season? She is well aware of the dangers of doing so; how many times have ambassadors or visitors to England been unable to cross the channel thanks to violent storms keeping them in Calais? Only a madman would permit an invasion fleet to put to sea as September draws to a close, and October approaches.

"All Saints." She says, suddenly.

"Majesty?" Cromwell asks, bemused.

"She means to claim her objective upon the feast of All Saints; it is a celebration of the lives of all saints, is it not? What better day to land and reclaim that which she wishes to grasp for God?"

"We cannot be certain of that." Rich looks unsure, "She has made no statement in relation to such an objective, and to do so would be entirely impractical, for she has not the time to assemble a fleet of suitable size if she wishes to reach her chosen shore in time."

"If she has not, I think it likely that she shall do so in time - and expect God to provide. Did she not stake her first claim upon the feast of the Archangels? If she is as convinced of God's blessing as your source claims, then that is by far the most prominent festival other than Christmastide - and, I think, the most likely to fit with her aims."

"In which case," Cromwell shifts in his chair, and grunts at a twinge of pain in his hip, "I shall alert the Lord High Admiral upon his return from Portsmouth and advise him to make preparations to assemble the English fleet. It is better to be prepared for that which does not occur, than to be complacent and be unready if it does."

A knock upon the door pauses their discussion, as a steward delivers another folded paper, "From Portsmouth, Majesty."

Frowning, Anne takes the document, then sighs, "It is from Bedford. The weather has proved to be most uncooperative, and his Highness of Portugal has not yet been able to depart. It seems likely that his departure shall be delayed for at least another week."

"We need his Grace to depart for Plymouth urgently, Majesty." Cromwell muses, "I think, then, that we shall be obliged to host the Prince for rather longer than intended. I would suggest, in the face of this situation, that he travel with Bedford to Plymouth. Should there be danger and he distinguish himself well for England, then it shall solve many of our problems at a stroke, for he shall have served her Majesty's realm. Perhaps, after such service, he shall be welcomed by Englishmen. I would suggest that Sir William Stamford also be sent; while he is only newly appointed to the Council, his knowledge of dowager Queen of Sweden is greater than ours, and he may have suggestions upon how she shall act."

"That sounds wise." Anne agrees, "Though I would not think it wise to allow his Highness to put to sea. I also agree that it would be sensible to send a man who has dealt with her personally, albeit at arm's length." She sighs again, "I think we cannot continue to plan without the Queen present. I shall ask Lady Wiltshire to find her."

The two men exchange a glance. It seems now the the time has come: Elizabeth must rally her realm, and this time it is she who must carry the burden.

* * *

Standing at the Quayside, Brandon stares at the motley collection of vessels: mostly cogs, though there are one or two larger ships, that have been gathered in the section of the Port that Mendoza has been able to secure for them. Even to his entirely inexperienced eye, the fleet is small and not at all well prepared for a seaborne invasion. The supplies that have been gathered and delivered are adequate - barely - but even her Majesty shall be obliged to consume little more than oats and beans while at sea.

There is one carrack, a little better than the others, that he has already secured for Queen Mary's use; and she has decreed that it must be renamed _Madre de Dios_ with immediate effect, for their invasion is intended to win England for God and for Rome, as much as to restore a true-blooded Tudor to the throne.

Beside him, Mary seems to be looking at an entirely different scene. Her eyes are wide with pleasure, while she looks upon the too few sailors with warmth and pride, and appears utterly unaware of the hardships that are likely to ensue for her once her flagship has departed Spain, "Look at them, my Lord!" she says, delightedly, "God's soldiers to bring England home to His embrace. The people of England who have been induced to heresy shall be saved, and those who reside in purgatory shall be overjoyed to hear the prayers of the monks who shall pray for them in perpetuity to bring them to Heaven's embrace. Once that is done, we shall bring my realm to a golden age of peace and safety."

_And what of prosperity?_ Brandon thinks, but says nothing. At least she is looking at least a little further than the boundaries of religion - if only as an apparent afterthought. For all herheresy, there is no escaping the awkward fact that England has prospered through trade and wise alliances with her neighbours, while the charitable works of the religious houses have been replaced with poor laws that bring equal succour, but look to more worldly means to bring comfort to those of limited means. Only a man who has known poverty could think of some of the measures that have been introduced; for all his loathing of the base-born Thomas Cromwell, Brandon finds himself entertaining a grudging sense of admiration for his innovations.

"How long shall it take us to reach England?" she asks, suddenly.

Surprised, Brandon blinks, but then recovers, "The Captains say two weeks, Majesty - assuming fair weather and a good wind to fill the sails."

"I wish to enter London on All Saints' Day."

It is hard not to stare at her. That is nigh-on impossible; they have yet to assemble a full complement of even a basic crew for most of the vessels, three of the cogs are barely seaworthy and must be repaired before they can sail, and they must depart in a week at most if they to have any hope of landing upon English shores. If the Harlot is able to gather together sufficient ships to fight them, then that shall slow them even more.

"You shall sail with me aboard my flagship, my Lord." She adds, firmly, "My Lord Boleyn and my Chaplain shall be aboard the second of the larger ships, from where he can minister to all from the forecastle. He is needed by all men, not merely by me. I shall appoint a lesser chaplain for the time being. Once we are in England, I shall petition for his Grace's appointment as Archbishop of Canterbury for his loyal service to my realm."

"We have little time, Majesty." Brandon reminds her, "There is still much to be done, and little time to complete the works before we can depart."

"God is with us, my Lord." Mary reminds him, calmly, "We must have faith; He shall provide - I shall restore the Tudor house to England, and you shall keep your promise to my late father. Once we are returned to England, I shall establish a chapel at Westminster, where men of God shall pray for his soul forevermore."

In spite of himself, Brandon smiles at her. Like her father, she has set her heart upon a goal, and nothing shall turn her from it. With God's aid, they shall prevail, and she shall truly be her father's daughter.


	53. God's Wind

Parramon stands alongside the helmsman, standing still for the first time since Brandon first saw him, his expression delighted and - to some extent - excited, "We shall see _Inglaterra_ at _Todos Los Santos_ Señor."

Brandon has been around the Spanish tongue for long enough now to at least pick out words that make sense to him, or to infer their meaning from the context of the sentence. Parramon is doing his best to talk to him in words that he understands - but he is no more capable in English, so their conversations are, of necessity, short.

They left Cadiz in fair, if chill, weather; gulls wheeling on a lively breeze that whipped the waves into foamy crests; a gallant fleet of thirty ships of various size that ploughed through the sea with Godly intent, a sympathetic wind billowing their sails.

Now, however, the ships lurch and roll in far larger swells, and he is quite sure that they are not going even half as fast as they should be. He is unconcerned at the movement of the vessel, for he has never been troubled by seasickness; but several of the Queen's ladies are enduring miseries below decks, while the Queen herself tends to them as though she were their servant and nurse. In spite of himself, he smiles; she is generous and loving to those who serve her. Hopefully, once the bloodshed is past, she shall be equally generous and loving to her subjects; and all shall be made right again.

He has to tell himself such things; her behaviour since she came to them in Pomerania has suggested otherwise, and his greatest fear is that her insistence upon restoring England to the authority of Rome shall bring only dissent, or - worse - internecine conflict akin to that which shattered the realm before her grandfather came to the throne.

He crosses to the rail, leans on it and loses himself in thought; returning to that moment at Wulfhall when he had stood beside Henry's makeshift coffin and promised the departed soul of the man within that he would not permit his friend's legacy to be squandered by Norfolk and the Boleyns as they fought amongst themselves to rule through a mere babe. Henry would never have asked it of him: he knows that; but it had seemed the only wise course to take in the absence of a son that might have been granted to him by the Seymour girl. Remove the child and family of a woman whose marriage was considered invalid by half of Christendom, and restore rule to the hands of the firstborn, who possessed the twin virtues of being of age, and regarded as the true, legitimate daughter by the other princes of Europe. Had he known where it would lead...

_No._ He reminds himself, _This was your promise to Henry; that you would restore his true daughter to her inheritance. Do not falter now._

He turns from the rail, and bows as Mary herself emerges from her cabin to the rear of the ship and crosses to join them. Unlike Parramon, she lacks the ability to move with the vessel's pitching, and weaves her way along the deck, clutching at her firmly pinned hood as the wind makes a determined effort to pull it from her head, "Are we progressing well, Admiral?"

As she speaks Spanish, Brandon is again lost.

"We are, your Majesty." Parramon advises her, an assessment that she is obliged to accept as there is no sign of land to their starboard, so far out are they in order to avoid French patrols, "The weather is in our favour, and we shall sight England in two days."

The conversation continues, and largely goes over Brandon's head, though the words ' _Inglaterra'_ and 'Tilbury' filter through to him on a few occasions. How the hell they shall get to Tilbury, he has no idea. To his knowledge, not a single one of the captains that are aboard the ships that trail behind them have ever sailed into the estuary of the Thames. From his own experiences, admittedly as a passenger, the ships' masters spoke of the dangers of the approach - low lying, featureless land with no landmarks to guide them, ever-changing sandbanks that could grasp a ship and leave all aboard helpless against the pounding of wind and waves. He recalls the number of men to the fore with sounding lines, calling back depths. Parramon is famed for his voyaging upon oceans - does he know the dangers that await?

It must be London, though. Were they to come ashore upon the south coast, they would be obliged to make their way across England - and only Mary is truly convinced that they shall gather an army in their wake. No - it would be a battle at each step, for the Harlot has won the loyalty of her nobility through the granting of land stolen from the Church. If they would not fight for her, they would fight to keep their ill-gotten property. Better to strike at the heart, and cut it out.

Leaving her Majesty to her discussions with Parramon, Brandon crosses to the rail and looks across to where the second ship of their fleet heaves and rolls behind them. There is no sign of Tunstall, who has not been seen since he shouted his blessings from the poop at their flotilla of cogs and carracks; but he can - just - make out the figure of Boleyn, standing alongside the captain of their vessel and clearly engaged in conversation. He is, however, too far away to see a facial expression, so Brandon has no idea whether he is discussing plans of attack, or complaining that they shall be fortunate to even see their intended coastline.

It matters nothing to him now. For all his doubts and fears, and against all odds, they are sailing back to England, carrying her true Queen with them. If God has not blessed them, then he can see no evidence of it.

* * *

Elizabeth reads the latest report that her Council have supplied, a combination of reports from the Ambassador sent aboard a swift Merchantman and the surreptitious councillor spy, whose identity she still does not know. Given the time that would have passed, it is likely that they are closer to England than any would like - but at least they are not yet sighted, for the beacons have not been lit.

Cromwell nods, "Yes, Majesty, I fear so. None of the men who lead the fleet have made the approach to the Thames, however. I am told by the watermen that to do so in ignorance is highly dangerous - but we are hopeful that it shall not be necessary to engage them there."

"There are but thirty ships, Majesty," Wiltshire reminds the Council, "most are small, and some barely seaworthy. It was rumoured at the time they were gathered that they would be fortunate even to emerge into the Channel, much less land upon our shores."

"Where is our fleet placed?" Elizabeth asks, keenly, "Can we afford to split our forces?"

"We have enough ships at Plymouth to engage the fleet, Majesty," Rich reports from a paper supplied by the Plymouth-bound Bedford, "the Lord High Admiral states that his captains are well able and prepared to do so, for they have loaded ordnance and guns, and are ready to sail at your order."

"And Mary knows nothing of this?"

"She does not, Majesty." Cromwell assures her, "our source has been deceived to think that we are entirely unprepared for an invasion, and do not know that she is coming."

"I have instructed priests to preach upon the failed invasion of Judah by Sennacherib, and upon the casting out of Lucifer from the Kingdom of heaven." Cranmer adds, though his expression becomes a mite cynical, "There is no evidence that your Majesty's catholic subjects have acted with disloyalty; but I would suggest that we enact some form of law to ensure that they do not declare for the Usurper."

"Why would we do that, your Grace?" Elizabeth asks, as she sees Rich stiffen slightly at the implication, "If there is no evidence of disloyalty, it does not serve us well to create that which does not exist and act against it. No - we have said before that it is not for me to make windows in men's souls. That is the prerogative of the Almighty, and I shall not do it. My people love me - and they shall stand at my side against an invader, for that is what she is."

"Beacons have been set along the south coast, Majesty." Cromwell interjects, smoothly, though all know it already, "As soon as the fleet is sighted, we shall know of it."

"Thank you." Elizabeth sits back, and sets the report down, "Call the men of Parliament. I shall speak to them and rally them. If, as we hope, we can repel this foolish enterprise before it has sailed past the shores of Devonshire, then it may be that I shall not be obliged to raise anything other than the local militia."

"I shall see to it. If it please you, I shall arrange for them to attend you this afternoon."

Elizabeth nods as they rise with her, and bow as she turns to depart.

Rich is still scowling somewhat as they depart the Council chamber and return to the office chambers, "Does Cranmer think _I_ am a traitor because I have retained my faith?"

"He is as eager to remove the papists as Mary is to remove the heretics, Richard. As long as her Majesty remains assured that her catholic subjects are loyal to her, they shall be protected from those who would demand that they abjure their faith. I might once have been as keen upon it as his Grace remains; but I am too old for such foolishness these days. Besides, Elizabeth has indeed won the love of her people, and thus to act against a portion of them but not others would be unjust, and dangerous in the circumstances. The brutalities in France over religion are sign enough that we have chosen the right path."

Grimacing again as he sits, Cromwell summons a steward who offers them cups of sack. Sipping at his, Rich looks concerned, "Thirty ships there may be - but the ones who lead them are intent upon taking England, and doing so in the belief that God is upon their side."

"They must thinks so, if they choose to sail at this time of the year." Cromwell scoffs, "I spoke to Challacombe when we were ashore in Plymouth, and he told me of brutal weather that can bring a ship to grief through its fury alone. If the vessels are of such poor standard as rumours suggest, then such a storm might save us without obliging him to put a single ship to sea."

"Then let us hope for storms."

"I shall send to Tilbury, I think." Cromwell muses, "While it seems unlikely that this small fleet shall reach the Thames, it would be madness to leave the river unprotected. I shall ask her Majesty to consider raising troops as a precautionary measure."

"In which case," Rich says, setting his cup down and rising to his feet, "I shall go and see that we have the funds to pay for them."

* * *

The men who have been sent from the Shires to represent the people are gathered in the enormous hall - for there is not sufficient room in the presence chamber for them - and bow collectively as Elizabeth enters, her senior councilmen to her rear, and steps up onto the dais before her canopy of estate. Rather than sit, however, she steps forth and stands before them, a tall, thin figure dressed in regal red.

"My loving subjects," she says, calmly, firmly, "It is our sorrowful duty to advise you that the rumours that are doubtless travelling amongst your communities are indeed true. The former lady Mary, Dowager Queen of Sweden, has sought aid from the King of Spain to bring an invasion fleet against England. As your anointed Prince, chosen to rule you by Almighty God, we assure you that she shall not prevail.

"Even before she elected to depart the shores of Spain, we appointed seasoned Captains to command a great fleet of vessels that shall defend us from this impertinence upon the part of a woman whom God did not permit to rule England. I swear to you, as your sovereign Prince, that I shall take up arms with you my people, and lay down my very life amongst you should it be demanded of me to assure all of England that they are safe from dishonour and treachery.

"Come on now, my companions at arms, and fellow soldiers, now for the Lord, for your Queen, and for the Kingdom. For what is this proud Philistine, that she should revile the host of the living God? I have been your Prince in peace, so will I be in war; neither will I bid you go and fight, but come and let us fight the battle of the Lord. The enemy perhaps may challenge my sex for that I am a woman, so may I likewise charge their mould for that they are but men, whose breath is in their nostrils, and if God do not charge England with the sins of England, little do I fear their force… Si deus nobiscum quis contra nos?"

Her voice has risen as she has warmed to her theme, and her eyes are alive with a royal fire that seems to call upon the very soul of her late father. Behind her, Cromwell's chest seems to swell with pride for her; by God, she is every inch a Queen - absolutely and utterly her father's daughter. Who now could doubt it?

The men before her certainly do not. His eyes glistening with proud tears, the Speaker steps forth, "As we are under threat, so shall we fight for England, and for our Prince. Call upon us, Majesty, and we shall stand! God save the Queen!"

A reciprocal cry from the gathered members of the Commons rises. Yes, indeed. God save the Queen.

* * *

Three men stand at the crown of a swathe of grass upon which have been carved enormous outlines of Goegamot and Corineus, freshly scoured and glistening white courtesy of the limestone beneath, commemorating the casting out of Goegamot by the hero Corin. It seems appropriate; if all goes well, perhaps they can cast the young Prince of Portugal as that fabled hero, and portray him casting out the giant of Spain.

The great natural haven of Plymouth's sound is scattered with ships as the fleet musters in preparation to depart. From their vantage point on the Hoe, Bedford surveys the view with relief. Most of the vessels out there are not of the new design - for it takes far longer to build ships than to design them - but they are re-caulked, re-rigged and in the best condition. Given favourable weather conditions, they shall see off a multitude should it be required of them.

Thanks be to God that it is not.

Filipe's excitement at his initial arrival in England has long been tempered into a keen strategic interest in all that is being done, and he looks upon the scene below with a remarkably experienced eye, "The Admiral has arranged his vessels wisely, your Grace. Their lines give ample space to fire their guns - would I be correct in assuming that they shall sail either side of the opposing fleet?"

"That is his intention, highness, though I think that he intends to stagger them so that they do not end up firing upon each other.

Filipe laughs, "That is indeed most wise."

Stamford looks concerned, "We must take great care if the Dowager of Sweden is aboard one of the ships. It would not do to sink it - her Majesty the Queen would not be pleased if that were so. Should the former Lady Mary come ashore, it is better that she do as a prisoner than a corpse."

"If her captains have any sense, her ship shall be protected amongst the others." Bedford advises, "It shall be hard to avoid accidental damage to her vessel - so they shall assume that we shall stay our hand."

"But we shall not?"

"Most assuredly, we shall not. Thirty ships shall offer her much protection if she is amidst them. It is perfectly possible to secure their surrender without so much as a shot reaching the bulkhead of her ship."

Stamford nods, "We are advised that they have been at sea for more than a week. Thus it cannot be too much longer before they are spotted in the approaches."

Returning to their horses, the three ride down from the Hoe to the dockside, a fair distance, as the great quays where the warships have been assembled are a short distance upriver from the town. Challacombe, still rather overwhelmed by his appointment as Admiral of the Fleet, is awaiting them, a rather wizened old sailor alongside him who seems to have something rather important to impart.

"Highness, my Lords." Challacombe bows, "This is Old Branok, a sailor on these waters since before I was born. He has an uncanny instinct for the weather; I've never known him to be wrong in all my days at sea, and he has sailed with me from the day I first mastered my own ship."

The old man beside him does not bow; though it is more thanks to an incapability than any disrespect upon his part. When he speaks, however, he does so in such a strange language that all three men stare at him in bemusement, "Ee go' wether cumin'".

"Forgive me," Bedford says, "What has he just said?"

Challacombe looks slightly embarrassed, "Nay, I think you must forgive me. I have listened to him for so many years that it is second nature to me to understand him. He speaks English but rarely, for he is a Cornishman and they have their own tongue.Furthermore, he has lost most of his teeth. When he speaks English, it is in a way that sounds strange to those who have not heard it. There is a storm approaching, it seems."

"How does he know?" Filipe asks at once, fascinated at such uncanny prescience, "It is remarkable to have such a skill - I would steal him from you if I could learn his speech."

"I wish I could answer you; but he has learned from a lifetime of sailing these waters, and I do not doubt him."

"'Em clouds up aar," Branok says, "'Ee be well up and scuddin' fast. 'Em golanes goan fore'n'back, so's wether's cumin."

Bedford and Stamford stare helplessly at one another, while Filipe is quite delighted, "He is a remarkable man, Admiral; if you trust him to be right, then so do I."

Challacombe smiles back, "He speaks in simple terms for lack of English words to express them. I assure you he is far more garrulous when he speaks his own tongue. He advised me before your arrival that he would use simple statements so that you would understand him."

"He is most kind; I am sorry that I still cannot entirely do so - but I shall excuse my failure by claiming that I am of Portuguese birth, though I am keen to become an Englishman. I think God has asked me to remain here so that I can fight for my new home."

The admiral turns, says something to Branok in a strange language that none of the three men have heard before, and the old man nods his head politely, before turning and limping away with that remarkable, rolling gait of a man rarely obliged to walk upon land, "Come with me, my Lords; I shall show you her Majesty's flagship, which I shall command. Though, if the weather is as poor as Branok suggests, we may be wise to hug the shore and find safety in havens along the coast."

The vessel they approach is one of the few newly designed war carracks built from Baker's designs: two masted, she has the low forecastle and raised poop, along with the wide keel that offers both manoeuvrability and stability so necessary for a vessel that must use speed and quick movement in place of size. Filipe is pleased with the workmanship and smiles with real pleasure as they cross the gangplank, "This reminds me of a _Fragata_."

"Our term would be 'frigate', Highness." Bedford advises, knowing the type of ship that Filipe is describing, "If it is your wish, we shall term this new class of vessel 'Frigate' in your honour."

"You are too kind, my Lord. What is her name?"

"She has not been granted one, Highness."

"Then that must be amended, must it not? She is our Queen's flagship, and thus should bear her name. An English name, of course. She is to be the pride of her Majesty, so I think she should be called _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_."

"And so she shall be." Bedford says, pleased at the suggestion, "Admiral, would that be suitable?"

"Assuredly so, my Lord. She shall be named so upon the roster of ships at the first opportunity, and she shall lead her Majesty's navy out to see off this impertinent invasion."

Filipe fumbles under the neck of his doublet, retrieving something, "I am not permitted to sail with you, sirs, so I ask that you set this about her main mast as a sign of my hopes and prayers for your success." He hands out a silver chain, upon which is a cross and a medallion bearing the sign of St Nicholas of Bari. For all their embrace of the new faith, few Englishmen, particularly sailors, have entirely eschewed superstition, and all look to those saints known for their patronage of sailors to keep them from harm while at sea.

Challacombe accepts the gift with another bow, "My thanks your Highness. When we win the day, I shall ensure all know of your gift. We must depart anon; the tide is shortly to turn and it is best that we put to sea to await the arrival of the invasion fleet. We shall permit them to pass us, and then emerge to harry them as they continue east. When the storm arrives, we shall put in to whichever haven is closest to us, and they shall be obliged to ride it out while we do so in safety."

Bedford turns to Filipe, "I suspect that there is little worth in remaining in Plymouth, Highness. I suggest that you and Sir William return to Portsmouth. It is likely that the weather shall aid us in repelling this threat, and thus we shall dock there once the danger is past."

"God be with you all, my Lord." Filipe does not object; much as he wishes to stand alongside the men who shall fight to defend England, he is under orders to stay ashore. It would not serve his Queen were he to be felled by a lucky shot from an arquebus. "I shall send to London for orders from her Majesty. It may be that I shall be of use to her in marshalling men at arms."

As they disembark, however, there is no disguising his dismay at not being permitted to join the battle. Beside him, Stamford smiles; he is young, and has never seen conflict; but the diplomat knows that there are better ways to resolve disputes, and hopefully the boy will learn them too. In the meantime, however, he can serve his betrothed through the leading of men while ashore; and, perhaps, earn their love in doing so.

* * *

Tunstall is on deck for the first time since they left Cadiz, though he looks as though he would prefer to be anywhere other than where he is. Never before has Boleyn seen a man so felled by sickness, or for so long. It is a miracle that the man is on his feet, so comprehensively has he puked up everything set before him.

His reason for doing so is plainly visible to their port side: a coastline Boleyn has not seen in more than ten years. He has no idea how far west they are - only that it is England. The captain does not know, and it is likely that the Admiral is no more informed. They have no worthwhile charts of the channel, as Parramon is used to sailing seas far beyond the sight of land, and thus has never really made much use of them. His own attempts to demand such information fell rather upon deaf ears, as to have commissioned current charts would have taken longer than Mary wished to wait.

Where the hell did she get this All Saints Day nonsense from, for Christ's sake? Surely she is not so utterly convinced of God's blessing that she has timed her invasion to coincide with a feast rather than sympathetic weather? He has little understanding of sailing or navigation - but even he knows that only a fool puts to sea in October. So eager is Mary to rescue England from the burden of heresy that she has forgotten that she must actually get there alive if she is to achieve her aim.

Beside him, Tunstall is gazing upon the tantalisingly close shores with almost desperate longing, though his desire is solely to get ashore - any shore would do - rather than to march beatifically up a beach with a processional cross to the fore, claiming England for God and Rome. At least the Court is unaware of their approach, the treacherous rodent Rich has seen to that. Even if the beacons were to be lit, the time required to assemble a fleet to repel them would be greater than that required to round the coast of Kent and sail up the river.

Ironically, now that he is finally returning to England to claim his stolen properties and titles, his thoughts settle upon the daughters, son and granddaughter that he abandoned in his flight to the continent. Mary has made no secret of her intentions for the Boleyn progeny, and he has permitted her to indulge those fantasies. Could he do it? Stand aside while his son and daughter are set upon a scaffold as traitors? George would be granted the ease of the axe thanks to his rank - but would Mary be so accommodating of Anne? God, no; it would be the stake for a woman who is both traitor _and_ heretic. Even if his daughter had returned to the catholic faith, it would not be enough; Mary has endured too much at her hands to be merciful. But Elizabeth - the child that he left behind when she was barely out of her cradle; what shall Mary do to her?

No - he is valued by the Queen. Should he plead for clemency, Mary would listen to him. His family could be sent into exile as she was - never to return…

What is he thinking? Of course Mary shall not do such a thing. It seemed so easy to despise his daughter and son when he was first in Flanders, far from any hope of winning back all that they had taken from him. In spite of their long wait, the fact remains that he never thought further than the moment that they present themselves to Mary. He had not given so much as a minute’s consideration to what would happen once they had done so.In some ways, he had not even been that assured it would be possible that they could.

A movement on a headland catches his attention, and he looks up to see a column of smoke, a sister column far to the west, and - yes, there it is - another one several miles further east. The beacons are lit, then. By the end of the day, Anne shall know that they are coming - and she must attempt to assemble a fleet from nothing. The fates might have carried the day upon her behalf when other challenges rose - but this time, they shall not.

He still has no idea where they are; gazing upon distant cliffs of a rich, deep red. They must be east of Plymouth by now, and no vessels have challenged them. Smiling, he looks back, and that smile freezes upon his features. Dear God - what has happened to the sky?

Now that he sees the darkening clouds to their rear, the strengthening wind becomes more apparent to him. When did it start to blow harder? He cannot remember - the sound of the pennons flapping, and the sails billowing, has been a background to his existence for a week to the point that he has largely become able to ignore it, and it is only now that he notices the outbreak of activity amongst the sailors.

The captain approaches them, "My Lord, a storm is upon us - if we cannot seek shelter, then we must furl the sails and set the sea anchors - and pray for our lives."

"This? This is hardly worse than anything we have experienced upon the open sea!"

"Those are but the outriders. There is worse to come, and we cannot put in to any haven to protect the ships. I shall signal the flagship - we must gather together to protect her Majesty's ship from what is to come."

A voice comes down from the rigging, and the two men turn to look to the stern. Hell - not only is the weather deteriorating, but at least one squadron of ships is rounding a headland in their wake; no, more…

"They did not know we were coming…" Boleyn mutters, to himself, "How can they have been ready for us…"

There is but one answer. They have been betrayed.

"Damn the man!" he shouts, suddenly, startling Tunstall, who has not understood the conversation between the Ambassador and the Captain, "Damn him for seeking favour through treachery!"

"What? Who?" Tunstall gulps, sickly.

"Thomas bloody Howard! He has sold us to the Usurper - that is all that can have happened; he can stand the losses if he regains his ascendancy, damn him! His conspiracy with Rich was against _us_ , not against her! God's wounds! I shall have him hung from the highest gibbet in Christendom for his treachery! That is the English fleet! The one that we were told was not prepared to sail!"

No - it is madness, why would they put to sea in such conditions? The seas are already rising in answer to the demands of the wind that is growing to a maddening shriek amidst the ropes of the rigging.

Then he understands; these are men who know these coasts intimately - they are not planning to engage; they are merely moving from Plymouth to another haven where they shall wait out the storm, and then come to take the pickings of whatever is left…

" _Señor_!" the Captain shouts across, "We must come together and prepare for the storm - get below!"

That is the most fearful order of all. He knows that, if he is being ordered below, it is so that he does not get in the way of the crew while they prepare the ship to ride out the storm - and that can only mean that it shall be a brutal tempest that they shall be fortunate to survive.

For the first time since they departed England, he is truly afraid. Tonight he might die. Best, then, to go below as asked, and get on his knees. Perhaps, if he is not too busy puking, Tunstall shall hear his confession. At least then he shall die shriven, and that is all that a man can hope for in an uncertain world. Certainly one as uncertain as this.

* * *

Seated at a great table in the large cabin of _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_ , Bedford pores over a large chart alongside Challacombe. The vessel is safely moored and still, sheltered by the hills either side of the river Dart as it empties into the sea. The two castles, one at the headland, the other further inland alongside the docks, shall ensure that Mary's tiny fleet cannot follow them, and must endure the fury of the storm while Elizabeth's answer sleeps safely in the haven of Dartmouth.

Waves were already breaking over the walls of the Castles as they made their way between them into the port, and all were grateful to be away from the open waters of the channel. Branok has already claimed that there has not been a storm this bad in nearly five years, though such savagery is not that unusual.

They have just ended a conference of the ships' captains to set out the orders for battle upon the morrow. One of Challacombe's most trusted captains shall lead half of the fleet, which shall sail to the starboard side of Mary's fleet to engage them on that side, while he shall keep his half to port. They shall harry Mary's ships to separate them out, then capture the flagship if they can. Those ships which escape shall be permitted to flee - it is Mary that is the danger, not the men aboard the ships that follow her. Without their figurehead, who shall follow them should they attempt to come ashore? They should be hanged from any nearby tree for merely being Spanish. Mary, and her conspirators, shall be captured and brought to London as the traitors that they are, the remainder of the ships being chased into the north sea to make what way they can back to Spain as a warning to the Emperor that England does not appreciate such behaviour from her neighbours.

"Chances are that a number of roofs shall be off higher up, I think." Challacombe muses, swirling a rough red wine in his cup, "If this is as bad as Branok says, then I shall be most surprised if all of her ships are still afloat in the morning. Even the most seaworthy of ships would founder in such conditions."

"In which case, we shall ride out the storm here, then emerge to pick off what is left."

"Assuredly. The prevailing winds shall prevent their escape westwards; they shall have no choice but to continue up the Channel and into the north sea. Scotland's treaties with her Majesty and with France shall ensure that any that remain shall find no sanctuary there - she would be a fool to try it. Her best alternative would be to flee back to imperial Lands; the Low countries for choice."

"She shall not be welcome there. The princes are subject to his Imperial Majesty, yes, but they are at least nominally independent. Her only refuge shall be Spain - and even that is thanks to filial bonds only."

"Then she is a fool." Challacombe swallows the last of his wine, "It think I shall take the opportunity to rest. Assuming that the worst has blown over by morning, there shall be much to be done on the morrow."

After a comfortable night in a bunk that has stayed pleasantly still in relatively calm waters, Bedford emerges upon deck to find that the wind has lessened, though not dropped entirely, and the sun has emerged to warm and dry the sodden cobbles of the quayside. The disorder ashore is clear, refuse has been blown hither and thither, while several buildings have been robbed of extensive numbers of shingles that are now shattered upon the ground. God alone knows where Mary's fleet shall be now - even with the sea anchors deployed, they shall have had no control over their direction; they might even have been blown onto the shoals of Start Point, though that is unlikely. More probable that they have been blown east, and are now somewhere in the midst of the Channel where they shall be obliged to make repairs of one sort or another while their opponents are free to sail further east in preparation for them.

All about him are busy, preparing their vessels for departure, as the Admiral has decreed that the weather has calmed sufficiently to permit them safe passage out of the haven, and continue their voyage east. Whether they shall be obliged to engage Mary's ships remains to be seen.

"At this rate, my Lord." Challacombe is grinning as Bedford climbs up to the poop deck, "We shall be victorious before his Highness has even reached Portsmouth to muster men in the Queen's name." He takes another bite of the rough rye bread that serves as his breakfast, and continues to confer with the helmsman before turning back to the Lord High Admiral, "The tides are favourable, so I think we shall be under way in less than an hour. Then we shall see what is left of the Spanish fleet."

As promised, _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_ leads the fleet out of Dartmouth back into the open sea of the channel. While the wind has certainly dropped, the seas have not, and Bedford is grateful for the increased stability of the ship as she rides waves that are higher than he should have liked. The men atop the rigging, keeping watch for Mary's fleet are clinging tightly, and it is near-on two hours before a shout from above alerts him that it has been spotted.

Even from their considerable distance to the west of the benighted flotilla, it is clear that the gathering of vessels has suffered as a consequence of the weather that still continues to whip up the seas even now. It is too far to see if any have been lost, but Bedford is willing to lay money on their gunpowder being fouled by water, and certainly none of the ships are yet under sail. If that is the case, then they shall be utterly helpless, for no guns shall fire if the powder is wet, and they cannot escape if they do not set the sails in very short order.

Challacombe signals the captain that he has assigned to command the second squadron of ships, which gradually peels off to round the gaggle of battered vessels still some miles off to their east. It as they do so that the first sails are sighted upon the ships ahead, "Ah, they seem to be taking steps to escape us, then."

"Those things? They are naught but cogs with a few small carracks amongst them - what use are they against superior vessels that are in far better condition? If any of them can fire a shot at all, it shall be a miracle."

"I prefer not to be complacent, my Lord. Cornered dogs are more likely to show their teeth."

"Then let us engage them. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can dine at Portsmouth."

* * *

Brandon has never been more grateful to see the dawn in all of his life. Trapped aboard a boat in less than perfect condition while the elements raged about them, even his nerve has been challenged by the sheer terror of thinking that the ship shall founder and entomb him in chill water as it sinks to the bottom.

His first act has been to call upon her Majesty, who is - not surprisingly - upon her knees giving thanks to God for bringing them through the storm. From the words that she speaks, he realises that she considers the fact that they are still afloat as proof that He still blesses their enterprise, and the ungodly efforts of the Harlot and her child to repel them by unnatural means has failed. Hell, does she really believe that?

Emerging upon deck, however, it is clear that they have not come through entirely unscathed. Two ships are missing - and can only have foundered in the night, for there are shattered remnants of wood in the water. God above, to have been battered to fragments by the weather - how seaworthy _were_ those things? Clearly not enough. Worse, thanks to the darkness of the night, none of the men aboard them could be saved. He turns his head aside and genuflects as a body bobs nearby, face down in the water.

Up on the poop, the captain is shouting orders to his crew that mean nothing to him, as they contain too many nautical terms, and not enough _Inglaterra_ , _La Reinha_ or other simple words that he can remember. From the mad scramble of the men, it is clear that something is amiss, and he hastens up to the upper deck to see that, sure enough, that unexpected English fleet is approaching, and dividing, too. They mean to engage, and have sufficient vessels to engage them on both sides. It could not be clearer that they have been deceived - far from being unprepared, the Concubine _knew_ that they were coming, and was ready for them.

Rather than pointlessly lose his temper, Brandon instead looks about for something that he can use as a weapon. If they are to fight, then he shall fight alongside the men that have sailed with them. He is a soldier, and if he must die, then he shall do so with a weapon in his hand. Hastening down to the magazine, he opens the door, and utters a sharp cry of angry dismay.

The entire room is still slopping with water - water that was driven through the badly caulked hull and into those chambers below the waterline. If the barrels of powder are equally sodden, then they are lost - please _God_ let that powder still be dry…Snatching up a light musket, he hastens to a keg that contains a supply of musket balls, to empty a few handfuls into a pouch, then turns to one that contains powder, and works out the cork.

Carefully he tips the small keg to tip out the powder within, and sighs with relief. It is perhaps a little damp, but not ruinously so. If they can remove the powder kegs up to a higher deck, then there is still hope that they shall be safe.

Calling out from the door, he attracts the attention of two passing crewmen. Persuading them to shift the kegs is not easy, as they speak no more English than he speaks Spanish; but eventually they are evacuating the powder to drier quarters, and his mind is more at ease. Hopefully the other ships shall have made the same discovery and shall be doing likewise. God alone knows what condition their food supplies are in.

More footsteps clatter upon the ladder as the few soldiers aboard come below in search of arms. He cannot communicate with them, so instead he stands aside and allows their commander to organise them. Returning up the ladder, he hastens to the Queen's quarters to the stern, and knocks upon the door.

It is Helena who opens it, her face still dreadfully pale after a night of no sleep and endless fearful praying, "My Lord?"

"I must speak to her Majesty." He advises, quietly, "Is she engaged in devotions?"

Helena nods. When isn't she? "Forgive me, but I must speak to her immediately. We are shortly to engage a defensive fleet."

He is not surprised that the woman's eyes widen in horror. For a realm supposedly unprepared to be invaded, they seem remarkably more ready than would be supposed. Rather than wait to be summoned, he hastens inside, and finds Mary is upon her knees at her _prie dieu_ again, but she crosses herself and rises without demanding to know why he is there.

"Majesty, the Usurper has sent a fleet against us. We have been betrayed."

"They knew we were coming?" Mary stares at him, appalled, "How could that be so? We were assured that they were ignorant of our activities!"

"His Grace of Norfolk has deceived us." Whether he likes it or not, Norfolk has always plotted with the sole intention of advancing the welfare of one: Norfolk. In his eagerness to grasp back that which was taken from him, he aims to do so through a show of loyalty to the one who robbed him of it, "I am sorry, Majesty; but the force that opposes us is greater in numbers. It is unlikely that we shall prevail against them on the basis of numbers alone."

"No." Mary's expression darkens, "That is not what shall bring us to victory. It is our faith in God. He has kept us from harm in the midst of the Harlot's tempest, and we shall drive them off. Thus we shall, victorious, continue to the Thames and sail to that woman's very heart of power."

Is she mad? They have _not_ been preserved entirely - two ships were lost in the night, and of those that still float, many are too damaged to make further progress without considerable repairs. If they are to survive, then they must give the approaching fleet cause to hang back, then flee as best they can. They are woefully undermanned, horribly lacking in ammunition and powder…all of their intentions hanging upon the conviction that they shall arrive unexpectedly, and be guided into London upon a surge of popular support.

"I shall do what I can to ensure that we are ready to see off the ships that approach, Majesty." He says. There is little value in arguing; she has become utterly convinced that they are invincible thanks to the blessing of God. After last night, perhaps she had some sort of descent into madness, and thus resides in a world where all is well and naught shall overcome her dreams…if that is so, then his best hope is to get her away from what shall shortly be a rout, and get her back to Spain. Bowing, he withdraws and hastens back up to the deck.

* * *

As their ships approach the beleaguered fleet, Bedford attempts to count the number of vessels remaining. He was told that there were thirty, but there are not that many now; at least one has been destroyed overnight. Judging by the wreckage in the water, they were smashed to pieces by pounding waves. Immediately, he crosses himself; those poor men - they signed up to serve a Kingdom, but now they are food for the fishes.

"God has acted against them." He mutters, softly.

"Nay, my Lord." Challacombe says, with the bluntness of a seasoned mariner, "Not God. October."

From their closing distance, Bedford can see men swarming over the rigging, frantic to set the sails in order to escape, regroup and attempt to fight. They could, of course, fly - but the winds shall permit them only to continue eastwards, where the ships from Portsmouth await, as well as any moored in London and pressed into service. It is over before it is even begun - surely there shall be a surrender now?

It seems, however, not to be so. Men are poling their vessels apart, sails are falling and beginning to billow in the breeze as they make desperate preparation for battle. Christ have mercy - it shall be akin to shooting a pinned boar. Nearby, Challacombe is bellowing commands to the men below, and has had a red flag raised to the rear of the ship, their agreed signal to commence the engagement. From where he is standing, Bedford cannot see a single gunport raised upon any of the Spanish vessels. Instead of the rout they were intending, it is they that shall be routed…

Across from _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_ , Boleyn is also on deck, and staring in disbelief at the speed at which they have been overcome. Their haphazard preparations were considered adequate in the face of assumed ignorance on the part of their enemy; but their enemy was _not_ ignorant, and it is now more than clear that they should have abandoned the enterprise entirely. Greater preparation would not have served them after all. Not if their enemy knew that they were coming.

They shall not surrender, though. That is too much to expect from the Queen. She has hung all of her hopes of salvation upon winning England back for God. She has no acceptance of salvation through faith alone, after all; this would have been the crowning glory of good works - works that would grant her admission into God's Grace. She shall die trying. And take them all with her.

Oh, dear Christ…the gunports of those approaching ships are open. He has already learned that their powder is utterly spoiled by water thanks to the appalling battering his ship took from the storm overnight. Whether the other ships can fire back is debatable, but his cannot. In all of his life, he has never, ever been deserted by a sense of strength or courage - but now his knees begin to knock, and he groans at the dread sensation of his bowels turning to water. Not now. Of all times, not now.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to ignore that horrible urge, and glares at the approaching ships with an almost enraged determination not to die a gibbering coward. If he must meet God this day, then he do so as a man; unlike Tunstall, who has been cradling a rosary and whimpering since the first pitching of the ship last night.

Gradually, he regains his equilibrium, and reaches for the sword that he has worn as a part of his supposed regalia since he took on the mantle of Ambassador. It shall be of no use at all against a shot from a heavy gun; but it might serve should they survive long enough to be boarded.

And then the line of English ships open fire. All of them are configured to fire a broadside, and they are taking full advantage of that ability; moreover, those that have fired, pull away from the line, and then turn to fire again from the other side, while the first side reloads. Being at the core of the small fleet, his ship has, so far, been untouched; but masts are toppling, great splinters being blasted in all directions to pierce men upon vessels that have not been anywhere near the initial impact.

Hurrying to the starboard side, Boleyn can see it is no better there; except…

He stares at what he sees in utter disbelief.

The appalling sound of the first broadside shatters Mary's contemplations, and she stares around her in shock, they have fired? Has battle begun already?

Without hesitation, she rises from her knees, hastily crosses herself and hurries from her cabin to make her way up on deck. It is not easy, for there are men fleeing in all directions, running, tripping, crashing into her as though they have no idea who she is. Matters do not improve once she has emerged into the daylight: the air is thick with powder-smoke, and the noise of men shouting at one another is such a cacophonous din that she can barely think.

A hand is upon her arm, "Majesty, you must get below! We cannot afford for you to be injured by flying splinters!"

"My Lord?" she stares at Brandon in confusion, have we fired upon the Harlot's fleet?"

"Nay, Majesty, they have fired upon us - and we have not sufficient powder to answer them, for most is too damp to ignite - we must remove you from here!"

" _No_!" she almost screams back at him, "You shall not take me away from these men, I shall _not_ flee while they stay and die! If we must account for ourselves before God, then I shall do so as a martyr, not as a coward! I fled once - never again! _Never_!"

"They shall not stay, Majesty," He tells her, at once, "They shall do likewise. It is likely that they shall be allowed to go, but we shall not. We must leave now, or you shall find yourself in the clutches of your enemies! At least, if we can return to Spain, we can try again!"

He is lying - and he knows it - but she does not need to know that. Charles shall disown them all, and never aid them again, but at least she shall be alive.

The air is shattered by another thunderous broadside from the Starboard line, and she can hear the screams of the injured and dying. No; it cannot be so…it cannot. God blessed her enterprise…he did…

And then the fire is gone. Her expression falters, and she sinks to the boards. She sheds no tears; but her despair could not be more overt if she had. Without another word, Brandon gathers her up in his arms and carries her below, leaving the Captain to order his men to retreat.

* * *

Challacombe curses as the only decently presented ship breaks from the gathering at full sail, and begins to pull away. With all of his ships engaged, he cannot spare one to follow, for the rest of Mary's fleet is attempting to do likewise. Five have foundered, and the men aboard them are fighting to secure anything to cling to in the waters as their vessels slide beneath the waves. Already, one of the captains has lowered boats to retrieve them; it would be most unchristian to leave them to drown, after all. Best to find out what they know, then dispatch them back to Spain.

Of the rest, twenty are breaking away, though their condition is so appalling now that they are unlikely to get far before they, too, founder. There shall be no boats to retrieve the men that are left aboard them, alas, but that is not Bedford's responsibility. Four, however, have been grappled and are about to be boarded. Given that the plotters are doubtless aboard the fleeing flagship, the best they can hope for is more pitiful sailors far from home who expect to be hanged.

Bedford retreats below to exchange the battered weapon he has been carrying for one more fitting to his rank; a ceremonial blade should not be chipped and befouled by blood, after all. That he has not been obliged to use it magnifies the bitter sensation of anticlimax. After all that they did, it is over in a single morning - and with so little resistance that they might as well have stayed back and permitted the ships to sink of their own volition.

"My Lord!" a sailor's voice calls down the passage, "We have taken two of the conspirators! They were aboard one of the captured ships!"

At first he hopes that it is Mary - but the man would have said so; thus it must be one of those who plotted. Wondering who they have caught, he grabs at his ceremonial sword and takes the steps back up to the deck two at a time.

There is some blood on Boleyn's blade - a sign that he has fought, rather than fled; though Tunstall is bedraggled and wan beside him. He makes no attempt to resist, or to engage in blustering justifications for his actions, instead standing calmly and quietly. It is over - and he must know that he shall certainly journey to London, but his lodging shall be the Tower, not a Palace.

"Do we follow the usurper?" Challacombe asks, as Bedford comes to stand beside him.

"It seems pointless to do so. She has lost - those who are with her shall know it. This failure shall serve to ensure that none shall heed her should she call upon the Emperor to aid her again. Let her go; it shall save her Majesty from a harsh decision that she shall be loath to make. No Queen would wish to execute another." He turns to Boleyn, "Thomas Boleyn, you are arrested in the name of Queen Elizabeth of England for high treason. Surrender your sword."

His expression still calm, and surprisingly free of bitterness, Boleyn hands over the weapon, "It seems that God has acted against us." He smiles.

"Not God." Bedford smiles back, recalling his Admiral's comment, "October."


	54. For I, too, am an Englishman

Sir William Stamford looks out across the great harbour and dockyards of Portsmouth with a sigh. The weather that struck them has delayed his journey with the Prince to such an extent that, by the time they reached the large house that has been set aside for his Highness, not only was the battle ended, but _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_ had been spotted making her way into the Solent.

While he is pleased that the approaching fleet has been repelled - even though it seemed more than likely that such a thing would happen given its size - the ease of the victory is less exciting. Englishmen are always proud of grand victories; but a victory gained so easily? They will have to be very careful over how they present it to avoid a sense of disappointment at the lack of military glory.

That said - he is pleased, for Elizabeth has won the love of her people courtesy of her speech to the men of Parliament, swearing that she would take up arms and die at their side should the need arise. The news of her commitment spread throughout England by the men of the Commons returning to their shires. Equally, Bedford has more than earned his peerage through leading a victory at sea. Being so new to the Council, Stamford is not afflicted by such petty foolishness as envy. The news that Mary has fled aboard her ramshackle flagship is both an equal disappointment and a relief. If she flees, she shall be someone else's problem, and Elizabeth shall not be obliged to try her own sister for treason. That, in itself, would be a dilemma that England cannot easily afford.

He turns as a steward enters the room, "My Lord, a messenger has arrived from the docks; her Majesty's Flagship is being warped in. The grooms have been advised and are preparing your horses."

"Thank you; please advise his Highness."

"Yes, my Lord."

Hastening to his chamber, Stamford retrieves a cloak, bonnet and gloves. Filipe is awaiting him in the entrance hall, and the pair emerge to take their horses, and make the short ride down to the quayside, "I am pleased that all is done, Sir William." He says as they trot the horses along a muddy street, "God has been good to us in granting us such an easy victory."

"Indeed so, my Lord; though I am sure that my Lord Bedford and Admiral Challacombe were most engaged against the invasion force."

They arrive at the dockside to see that _Queen Elizabeth's Pride_ has been moored, and a number of the soldiers aboard have already disembarked to form an honour guard as the two Admirals follow. His expression pleased, Bedford stops in front of Filipe, and bows, "Your Highness, welcome to Portsmouth. I am pleased to advise that the invasion force from Spain has been repelled, by God's grace and the bravery of her Majesty's navy."

"I am told that the flagship has escaped with the other ships of her fleet, my Lord; but such is our victory that those aboard shall not come again."

"What of the sailors aboard the captured ship?"

"They are being conveyed to the fortress at Portchester, where they shall be held for questioning. I suspect they know nothing of worth, so we shall hold them there until winter is past, at which point they shall be permitted to seek passage back to Spain – unless the Emperor is prepared to admit an English vessel to a Spanish port to return them.I believe that they have not been paid as much as a groat for their work, however, so I would request that the Council arrange for a stipend to be paid to each to cover the cost should his Imperial Majesty not comply.”

"I trust that they shall be decently housed during that time?" Filipe asks, "It would not do for us to complain at what has been done to us, only to do worse to those whom we have captured; particularly if they are of so little consequence to the enterprise."

"I have received orders to that effect from her Majesty, Highness; but two of the conspirators were also captured aboard that ship, and shall be transported to London to face trial."

Behind the prince, Stamford frowns, intrigued: who have they captured?

Bowing again, Bedford turns and nods to one of the officers still aboard the ship. Standing aside, the man nods, and two rather bedraggled men appear at the gangplank. Having been abroad for a number of years, Stamford has no idea who they have brought to shore; though one seems to be so relieved to be off a ship that he almost sinks to his knees to kiss the ground.

"Allow me to introduce Cuthbert Tunstall, former Bishop of Durham and disgraced traitor to her Majesty the Queen." Bedford announces, indicating the trembling priest, "Also Mr Thomas Boleyn, former Earl of Wiltshire and equally disgraced traitor to her Majesty the Queen."

Filipe's eyes widen at the name, for he knows that Elizabeth's mother answers to the name 'Boleyn'. Fortunately, however, he says nothing - it seems wise not to speak; as it is clear that all around them are staring in astonishment. He might not know who this man is; but everyone around him obviously does.

The mention of the dread word 'traitor' is a clear indication of the eventual fate of the two men who have just been brought ashore, and the quailing priest blanches at it, though the former Lord looks calmly resigned to his fate and seems pleased to be home, even though it means his death.

Stamford bows, though only slightly, "Gentlemen, it is my duty to convey you to the Tower, there to await her Majesty's pleasure."

If Tunstall had not quite reached his knees when he came ashore, the news of his destination is sufficient to prompt him to go the rest of the way, but he manages not to blubber. Instead, Boleyn turns to him, "Get to your feet, man. If we are to face God, then we do so as men, not gibbering cowards."

It takes a while to secure the procession; horses must be found to carry the two prisoners, while their escort must also be mounted up and armed. Most shall not know who the captives might be - but it is always better to be prepared. Such is the power of rumour, however, that - before long - everyone in Portsmouth seems to know what is going on, and a great crowd has gathered. One that is not at all friendly towards the two men who have led a foreign invasion against them.

Looking around, Bedford curses, "Form up more men around the prisoners. I do not want them being pulled from their horses. They must be tried before a court of peers, not torn to shreds where they stand!"

Seated alongside Stamford, Filipe looks concerned, "Would they do so, Sir William?"

"Such is their mood, it is impossible to know, Highness."

Rather than watch mutely, Filipe urges his horse forward, "Good English people! I am come amongst you as a friend, welcomed to these shores by her Majesty the Queen as her guest. It has been my greatest joy to do so, for I have found you to be strong, brave and fine - and proud of your land as good men should be! It is a strange thing when a man from foreign shores stands alongside Englishmen against a threat lead by other Englishmen, but Portugal has been England's friend for many generations. Thus I have done so, and am joyful to have done so. Her Majesty the Queen shall visit justice upon these traitors, and shall do so in God's name; for He blew with His winds, and they were scattered.

"I am not English born, but today I stand amongst you as one of your brethren, for I, too, am an Englishman! As her Majesty promised to take up arms and fight alongside you, God has granted his blessings upon this realm, and defended her against invaders who would have brought misery upon her. Thus, justice shall be done in His name. God save the Queen!"

Bedford and Stamford stare in near-horror; regardless of his fluency, Filipe's accent is still strong and proclaims his foreign blood above all else. But his words seem to transcend that foreign timbre, the insistence that he is now an Englishman, the claim of God's blessing and the exhortation for Elizabeth have won the day; and instead of anger, now there is a mumbling that resolves into an answer of 'God save the Queen' from a multitude of voices. Pulling back, the crowd finally permits them to depart.

Surprised, Stamford turns back to Bedford, "Perhaps they shall accept a foreign prince for our Queen after all."

Bedford sighs, "I shall believe it when I see it. But we can, at least, hope."

* * *

The violence of the waves is a nightmare that seems never to end, tossing _Madre de Dios_ like a small cork in a barrel that does not merely rock, but tumbles down a hill. God alone knows where they are now; all Brandon can say with certainty is that England is to their west, and they are moving northwards. Such is the brutality of the winds that they cannot hope to make a return journey the way that they came.

Two more ships foundered as they rounded the coast of Kent, one driven aground upon sandbanks that were not expected by men used to sailing open waters, the other pounded apart by brutal swells that seemed to come from all directions at once.

Clinging to the main mast as another cascade of water hammers across the deck, Brandon shakes hair out of his eyes and stares helplessly skywards. Below, he knows that Mary is praying, clutching her rosary so tightly between her fingers that the beads leave little dents that seem not to diminish on the rare occasions that she sets it down. Her ladies cling to one another and scream, or vomit, as none can rest in the bunks - they keep being flung from them onto the floor.

The inability of anyone to stomach victuals is perhaps a blessing, for their supplies are so ruined by seawater that they have nothing left but a few small sacks of beans and their stocks of hard-tack. Only their water kegs seem to have escaped the incursion of salt. He has been obliged to subsist on a foul-tasting gruel of mashed beans and soaked tack for days now, and he is no longer sure whether he wants them to be wrecked or not. Supper at the Lord's table shall be infinitely preferable to the grey mush that he must endure at every meal. God have mercy; what the hell were they thinking to leave Spain in such a season?

A movement catches his eye, and he turns to see Mary staggering along the deck. Her hood is gone, and the wind snatches her coif in its grip, tearing it away and sending her long hair flapping around her face in lank rat-tails that quickly become sodden in the ghastly spray. There was a time when it was a fair red-gold, but no longer - the hardships of her life are draining that colour away, leaving her tresses streaked with grey that betrays her age in a way that no cosmetic can conceal.

"Get below, Majesty!" he bawls at her, the wind snatching his words to such a degree that he must shout, or she shall not hear him, "It is not safe to be on deck!"

"I am not afraid, my Lord!" she shouts back, clutching at ropes to aid her advance to his side, "We live, and thus God is with us!"

Hell - does she still truly believe that God shall give her England? Bemused, Brandon stares at her, now a wild figure of flying hair and snapping hems that looks almost witch-like in the violence of the wind. None of the ships that were with them are now visible, the storms having separated them to the point that each captain must now serve only the interests of himself and his men. If she hopes to come ashore somewhere else in England and somehow raise an army, then she is truly labouring in a dream.

"God shall deliver us, and we shall return to Spain. That He has done so is proof that He demands that we save England from the curse of Heresy - that they fight us is no surprise. My error was to be too hasty, and I have sought His forgiveness for my impatience to carry forth His will. We shall raise a new fleet, and this time we shall bring that heretic queen to her knees before the true Church."

Brandon sighs inwardly; how to tell her that, no matter what she believes God wants, no prince in Christendom shall ever permit her to depart from any port in Spain ever again? She tried, and she failed. At best, the Emperor shall permit her to retire to her grandmother's kingdom. At worst, he shall forbid her to land, and then she shall have nowhere to go; for who would accept one rejected by her own blood? Perhaps she already knows it - and prefers to believe otherwise in order to comfort herself in the midst of her abject failure. He has no way to know.

"You think I shall not?" she is beside him now, and has seen his expression, which spikes her temper, "I am the true firstborn of my father's House! I am the one true Tudor! I shall take England back, marry a truly Christian prince and bear a multitude of sons to repair the ruin of my realm! My cousin shall not refuse, for he is a good Catholic, and shall agree to perform God's will! Do not _dare_ to think otherwise!"

"I dare to think otherwise!" he turns back, furious at her unwarranted anger and seemingly wilful blindness, "If we are fortunate to survive this journey and return to Spain, then we shall be blessed if the Emperor even permits us to tie up at the dock! We have embarrassed him! He claims to be at peace with England, but has sponsored an attempted invasion - thus he now appears to be a deceiver and a breacher of treaties! That we live means nothing! Our invasion failed, Elizabeth's reign is not disturbed, but is likely to be strengthened all the more by the defeat of her enemies - and it shall be declared by all that God was not upon _your_ side, but instead upon _hers_!"

He had not meant to speak so violently, but the depth of her apparent delusion is such that he can take no more of it, promise or no promise. She tenses, as though about to strike him, but he will not stand back. The time for standing aside was more than ten years ago - he chose not to, and must now bear the price of it.

Rather than lash out, however, Mary sags, "If that is so, then you are no longer with me. I shall return below, and we shall exchange no further words. You are not a member of my retinue and you shall be permitted to depart as you will upon our return to Spain. When I gather my new fleet, I shall be accompanied by loyal men who shall stand with me as I take back my realm, and send the heretics to the fire. It is my mission - it must be done."

He sighs again. She shall find no Englishman who shall agree to do such a thing. There are exiles, yes, but without a fleet, then there is no one to form her Council. The alternative is Spaniards, and then England shall assuredly fight tooth and nail to repel her.

"As you wish, Majesty." He says quietly, and resumes his stance alongside the mast, looking ahead at the mountainous seas. Without another word, Mary turns away and makes her way back below.

* * *

The barge is slowly guided just short of the wharf below the stone edifice of the Tower, the oarsman holding their oars upwards and attempting to avoid the dripping filth of the river water as the vessel glides beneath the great water gate and is pulled to the steps. Rising from her seat in the Cabin, Anne turns to Cromwell, who has accompanied her on this rather dreaded journey.

She must speak to him - she cannot leave things as they were when he turned upon her in hatred and looked to ally with a rival; but nonetheless, she has not laid eyes upon her father for more than ten years, and to do so now is an uncomfortable meeting to face.

He has been kept in comfortable quarters - in spite of his now-common state - and she shall not be obliged to make her way through grim corridors to some dungeon or other; but nonetheless, she remains uncertain of how he shall receive her.

"I am told that he has been entirely resigned to his fate, Majesty." Cromwell advises, in response to her unspoken appeal, "I do not believe that he shall speak violently. It may be that he has opted to reconcile with you instead."

"In hopes that he shall be spared?" She asks, as they mount the steps, "He is many things, but he is not a coward, Mr Cromwell."

"Nay, that was not my implication, Majesty." Cromwell shakes his head, "It is never a good thing to go to God with matters unresolved. It may be that he shall seek to repair your familial bond before he mounts the scaffold. That, at least, is my hope."

"He has not yet been tried." She adds.

"The outcome is all-but a forgone conclusion, Majesty. You know as well as I. He has led a foreign invasion of the realm with a view to removing the Queen, and there is no mitigation for it - furthermore, there is only one answer to such an act."

"Thanks be to God that I retain the prerogative to sign a death warrant. I could not bear to ask my daughter to do such a thing - not to her own grandfather."

"We shall see to the interrogation, Majesty. It shall be carried out with respect and courtesy."

She glares at him, "If there is any mention of instruments, then the first to be put to them shall be you."

"I doubt that such measures shall be necessary. The former Earl has shown neither defiance nor cowardice. I think it likely that he shall tell all that he knows, though there shall be little need for it now. There is no news of the location of the traitor Mary's ship, and it is possible that it has foundered. Even if it has not, and she returns to Spain, none shall grant her a new fleet after such a calamity."

They are conveyed through into the inner ward, and up to one of the great towers that gird the curtain wall. Tunstall is also here in the upper of the two rooms, but Boleyn is in the lower. Knowing it is best not to be present, Cromwell remains at the tower door, leaving Anne to make her own way up the stairs to her father's accommodation.

He is seated at a small writing table alongside the glazed windows, a cheerful fire crackling in the nearby grate as the door is opened, and she is shown in, but abandons his book and rises to bow with an elegant formality that he never showed her when she was Henry's wife, "Your Majesty."

"Father." She says, quietly; and falls silent, suddenly lost for words. What on earth can she say to him that shall not sound petty or accusatory?

Rather than prompt her to speak, Boleyn lifts his chair and carries it across to the fireplace, where another, more comfortable seat is already set, "Perhaps we should be seated."

Accepting his invitation, she settles in the upholstered chair, and waits for him to seat himself as well. He eyes her a little sadly, "You have done most well, my daughter."

"I think I have. Better than you imagined that I could."

He nods, "Much better."

"Why, Father?" She asks, suddenly, "Why did you turn upon us? Your daughters, your son - even your granddaughter? You could have stood at her side as one of her great Lords, but you turned upon us. Why?"

"You are a woman." He says, simply, "No woman has ever ruled England - thus it was for men to do so until her Majesty came of age and bore a son. Until that son was grown, it was essential that men govern the Realm. I thought that there was no other way."

"And you did not see increased power for yourself?"

Finally, he smiles, "I most assuredly saw it, Majesty."

"Please - I am your daughter. I should prefer it if you addressed me by my name."

He nods."Norfolk would have ruled as Lord Protector, and I have no doubt that I would have retained the Privy Seal, if not a greater appointment than that. I saw a Dukedom in my future, Anne. It did not occur to me that, instead, it would be the block."

"Had you stood at my side, it might well have been. Instead, a man you despised as a commoner is now the Lord Chancellor, and the man you intended to send to the noose is the Lord Treasurer."

"My son, at least, holds the Privy Seal."

Anne looks at him, her eyes sad, "Do you know that he has a son?"

For the first time, Boleyn's eyes widen, "He married again?"

"Of course not. He reconciled with Jane - they regained their love for one another and she bore him a son to continue our family name." She pauses, "He is angry with you, Father. Angry that you turned upon him as you did, and that he was almost destroyed by your fall."

"I am glad that I failed." He says, after a while, "I do not offer excuses - I was blinded by ambition. Once it was clear that I had made a grave misstep, I clung to that which I had grasped, and attempted to regain what I had lost - for I knew I would be for the block if I had been captured at Barnet." He pauses, and snorts with mild amusement, "Instead, I am for the block for I was captured at sea."

Anne regards him, and the courage that she remembers from the years of her childhood, "I wish it could have been different."

He shakes his head, "I beg to differ. I think it was for the best. Had I remained, I think I should have caused you all manner of difficulties, for we would have been a family faction - and it should have been far harder to win England with my allegiance than my enmity."

She stares at him, startled by his assessment; and the self-awareness that has driven it, "Perhaps so, perhaps not; but nonetheless, I should have preferred it if you had stayed at my side."

Boleyn smiles at her, "I am glad of it. I have acted against you - and began to see the error of my ways some time ago. Long, however, after it was too late to make amends."

"It is never too late to make amends, Father." There is no mistaking the hope in her voice.

"Indeed so - for I am here, am I not? Speaking to you and being granted the opportunity to mend that which was broken by my arrogance."

"I cannot save you, Father. The council would not countenance it."

"I do not ask it of you." Boleyn answers, "I have committed grievous crimes against England - it is my just punishment. I shall meet my end with a light heart, for I have paid my debts to those to whom I owed them." He pauses, "I think it best to advise you, however, that we were aided by a member of your Council. I presume you already knew about Norfolk - for Mr Cromwell has ever been well capable of seeking out that which is hidden."

"As capable as a terrier in a rat-pit, father." Anne smiles, "He has served me most well. As has the man you think to be a traitor. Mr Rich has acted throughout with my knowledge and agreement."

He is startled, but only for a moment, "I thought him to be naught but a self-interested sycophant interested only in his own advancement. It seems that, in driving him to your service, we have given him a higher purpose." Then he smiles, amused at himself, "I thought the traitor was Norfolk, for he had assured us of your ignorance – only for an English fleet to appear at our backs; and I cursed him for it. It did not occur to me for a moment that Sir Richard was the weakness in our edifice."

"Elizabeth's council is formed upon a basis of cooperation and common purpose, Father. I find no benefit in setting my daughter's councillors against one another - and it is my hope that she shall learn from that example and continue to rule without the arguments and squabbling of factions. All that I have ever done has been with the sole intention of ensuring that I do not create a political disaster that my daughter shall be obliged to undo. I am not a King - I am a Queen, and thus must work differently to a man."

Boleyn nods, "That is true. I see that you have inherited the intelligence of your family most keenly - and in more than mere knowledge. I did not believe it possible that you could hold this Kingdom together, for you were a mere woman. I presumed that you would attempt to rule alone - instead you looked to those around you for aid, and worked with them to strengthen the Government of England while still ruling the realm as its Queen." He pauses again, and his smile widens, "God above, between us, Norfolk and I would have destroyed England in our determination to be the one who ruled as Lord Protector."

"And you did not see that at the time?" Anne asks, a smile creasing her features, too.

"If I had." He answers, reaching over to take her hand, "Then we would not be having this conversation, would we?"

"If it were possible for me to reprieve you: believe me, I would."

"I know. But I shall not go to the block without making my last confession, and thus I shall be able to offer my repentance before God. I have few good works to grant my entry into Heaven, but I have faith that God shall be good to me if I make amends for my sins. I have no doubt that Mr Cromwell is awaiting the opportunity to question me upon the matter of my treason and those who sinned with me; I shall willingly cooperate."

Anne's smile trembles somewhat, "I have missed you, Father. It caused me great pain to send you from my Council, and to know that I had earned your enmity."

Rising, he pulls her into a warm, paternal embrace, "No, my daughter - you did not spark enmity. My temper alone did so. I have acted cruelly, and foolishly. Know that I am most proud of you, and of your brother, for you have kept England safe for my granddaughter when others would have damaged her for their own gain."

"Oh…Papa." She has not used that term of endearment since she was small; but the tears that rise will not permit her to be formal, "I have longed to hear that. I have never acted without the wish that it would earn your approval."

"Then know that it has done so. I beg your forgiveness for my behaviour."

"You have it."

"I am grateful." Gently, he disengages from her, "I must ask you not to return. I think to do so shall serve only to cause you pain. I have done quite enough of that."

Smiling through her tears, she takes his hand, and squeezes it, "Then I depart with the words that I love you, Papa. I always have - and I give thanks to God that we have been granted this time to make peace with one another."

"As do I. Go now, my precious Anne. Complete the task for which you were born - give England a Queen of whom she can be proud."

Her descent is a slow, painful business, stepping heavily as the echoes of that closing door follow her back downstairs. Her father has never been a coward; she is proud of his acceptance of death - and hopes that she, too, might be so accepting had she been obliged to await execution as he does. If only it could have been different…if only he could have worked with her, and not against her…

Cromwell awaits her as she emerges from the tower, his eyes sad; "He shall cooperate with you, my Lord. All that you wish to know, if he is aware of it, he shall tell you."

"He is a remarkable man."

"He is." She agrees, "He is my father. How could he be anything else?" she attempts to smile; but her distress cannot be held back any longer, and she lets out a pained, grief-ridden sob.

The time of gossip is long gone, and they are not unchaperoned. Without a word, he sets an arm about her shoulders, and allows her to weep into the fur of his simarre. If this has been hard, then the trials shall be far harder.

The worst is yet to come.

* * *

Cromwell reviews the notes he has made of his discussions with Thomas Boleyn. As he promised, he has been forthcoming, honest and has made no excuses or attempted to lay the blame at the feet of any other. There is little that they did not already know, thanks to their use of Norfolk as a source of information; but it has confirmed much that they knew, and a few things that they did not. All those who carried messages between Arundel and Norfolk's co-conspirators have been identified, and all who remain in England shall be arrested.

Additional to her orders over the fate of the Spanish sailors, the Queen has decreed that only those who conspired shall pay the final price of it, so those who were merely the messengers shall be questioned and fined. She has no wish to set a precedent of cruel punishment for those who are mere servants of conspirators, and he is relieved that she has done so. Forgiveness is not a weakness, after all.

They shall not do so until Norfolk is arrested, however. Sir William has taken a delegation of the council to see to that; though the one who most wanted to go with them sits at a desk nearby and sulks.

"It is better that you deflate his self regard when he is here, Richard." Cromwell says, without looking up from his papers, "You are the only card he has to play, and he shall be most discomfited to play it, only to find that you are instead _our_ Triumph. _That_ shall be the moment to savour."

"What has Tunstall offered?" Rich asks, his inevitable curiosity overcoming his ill temper.

"Very little of any worth." Cromwell admits, "Though he has tried to give us all that he can think of. Most is of no importance, for he has been in hiding for years and thus knows nothing of the great conspiracy to set Mary upon the throne. He has done nothing more than confirm that which Boleyn has already supplied, though he has been most keen to implicate any that he can think of, in hopes that doing so shall save him from the block."

"Anyone of use?"

"I think not. If he knew much of value, then he should have implicated you - but he failed to do so. It seems that both Boleyn and Brandon considered him to be of little worth to their enterprise, and it was Mary who accepted him as her Chaplain." Setting the papers aside, Cromwell sits back in his chair, and grimaces briefly at a sharp stab of pain in his hip, "At least we have one matter of celebration. While he spoke unprompted, and caused concern for Bedford when he did so, His Highness's declaration that he was also an Englishman seems to have won over all those who heard him do so, and the news is spreading that our victory was won with the aid of an ally from Portugal who has declared himself to be one of us. With the announcement of their betrothal, and a wedding three months' hence, I have every hope that such celebrations shall serve as a counterpoint to the unfortunate bloodshed that is to come."

"He is a fine young man; though it is, alas, a risk we are taking that we shall find him eager to grasp the crown regnant once they are wedded."

"We have found him a purpose, Richard; as such, I think he shall make good work upon establishing our trade and naval fleets, and ensure that our new trading opportunities in the East shall benefit _all_ men, not merely merchants."

Rich smiles to himself. Only a man who has known what it is to be poor would think so. Even now.

The pair look up as a steward enters, "My Lords, her Majesty the Queen Regent asks to see you."

Exchanging a glance, they rise from their desks.

Anne awaits them in her Privy Chamber, her eyes a little distant, "I have received word by fast horse; Sir William has arrested the Duke of Norfolk. He has, as I am sure you shall show no surprise to hear, refused to accept the legality of the arrest, but has consented to come to Court to petition me directly."

"When are they expected?" Cromwell asks.

"In two days."

He nods. There might have been a time when it would have taken far, far longer; but that was before the roads had been built. Rich shall be pleased - only two more days, and he can watch the look upon Norfolk's face as he discovers that he has been led by the nose.

"Let us not think of a traitor, Gentlemen." Anne advises, "Tomorrow, we shall announce the betrothal of her Majesty to his Highness, Prince Filipe of Portugal, who shall become his Royal Highness, Philip, King Consort of England. His declaration that he is an Englishman has aided us greatly, for many believe it to be so."

Cromwell smiles, "Indeed so, Majesty. I have the papers that he signed to swear that he shall not look to rule England in his wife's stead, but shall stand at her side as her Co-ruler and beloved Consort. He is aware that, but for his marriage to her Majesty, he would have few prospects as a Prince, and thus is pleased to be blessed with marriage to a woman to whom he is bonded. I have no doubt that they shall find a way to work together as husband and wife."

"That is my hope - though I suspect it shall be quite a fiery beginning to their marriage." Anne smiles.

* * *

Elizabeth eyes herself in her great looking-glass, turning this way and that, examining every inch of the magnificent auburn-red gown that she shall wear to celebrate the announcement made not three hours ago that she shall marry Prince Philip, Duke of Wessex.

She smiles to herself as she recalls Bedford's account of his impassioned speech to the men of Portsmouth that he was now an Englishman, too. Such was his insistence that they seemed to believe it, and she is grateful; for it appears that the rest of the realm has begun to believe it, too.

Even so, she knows that it shall not be an easy thing for him to accept that he cannot rule her as a husband should rule his wife. It is, after all, a woman's place to be subservient to her master - but she is no mere woman. She is God's Anointed of England, and thus is _more_ than a mere woman. As such, she is not to be commanded by any man, though she is more than content to be persuaded, and perhaps the marriage of a Queen and a Prince shall forge a standard of co-rulership that she knows existed between the parents of the woman to whom her father had once been married.

Smiling, Anna Conti steps forth with the magnificently bejewelled diadem that shall sit atop her coif rather than the more usual curved French hood. There is a veil to wear under it, of course, for only her women are permitted to see her hair nowadays, but that veil is a heavily embroidered russet red-gold, as though replacing that most visible sign of her father's legacy. It shall not be revealed to any again, until her husband visits her upon their wedding night.

Is this how her mother had felt upon the morning she was announced as the betrothed to the King of England? She has no real knowledge of those days that predated her birth, for her mother has not spoken of them that much. There was, she recalls, a small conversation in a horse paddock when she was still very small; and, upon that childish memory, she hopes that her happiness shall be half as great as that of Mama when she was able to stand at Papa's side and all finally knew who, and what, she was.

Kat is holding the last of the jewels that are to adorn her: a heavy arrangement of garnets and rubies on many-twisted ropes of gold wire that shall encircle her delicate throat. While magnificent, it is not too ostentatious; she has learned from her travels amongst her people that they admire simplicity as much as show.

"There, Majesty," She says, as she fastens the clasp that sets the beautiful piece in place, "you are the very image of royalty, and every inch your father's daughter."

"And my mother's." Elizabeth smiles, "But for her, I think I would not have seen this day."

"All that she has done, she has done for love of you, gracious Majesty."

There is a discreet knock at the door, which Anna answers, "His Grace of Wiltshire is without, Majesty. He is to escort you to the Hall."

Elizabeth turns and examines her reflection one last time to ensure that she is satisfied with her womens' efforts, "Thank you, Anna. I shall be there anon."

Kat comes to stand beside her, "He shall not be able to resist you, Majesty."

"If we are as contented together as my mother was with my father, then I shall know happiness, Kat."

She does not see the expression upon her Gentlewoman's face as she departs; thanks to the care that they have taken, she knows nothing of the somewhat scandalous beginning, and horrible ending, of that once-great match. Sometimes, it is better to be ignorant of such things.

Wiltshire looks upon her and immediately bows rather more floridly than he needs to, "My goodness, Majesty, you are truly a picture of wondrous royalty! I am in awe of your glory!"

Elizabeth laughs at him, "Always such the fool, Uncle. I am right glad for your humour, for the rest of the day shall be far more solemn in tone than I would wish it."

"Indeed, Majesty." He smiles back, "It is a tiresome manner in which to celebrate a joyful occasion." Turning, he summons a steward, "Before we depart, her Grace asked that I give you a gift; one that she says brought her joy in her marriage, and thus she hopes shall do so for you."

Intrigued, Elizabeth reaches out for a flat package, wrapped in a fine fabric. Once revealed, she examines the small frame that holds a rather old, and somewhat yellowed, piece of fine paper upon which is some carefully scribed lettering.

"Beloved, let us love one another," She reads, "for love commeth of God, and everyone that loveth is borne of God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God: for God is love."

"It was a gift that she granted me long ago, at a time when we were not as loving as we should have been." Wiltshire admits, "I was a fool, but I set aside such foolishness; and I give thanks to God every day that she is my dear wife."

Carefully, Elizabeth sets the small frame down upon a nearby table, "Thank you, my Lord. As she granted it to you, I shall grant it to my husband when we are wed. We shall receive many gifts, I suspect - but none shall be as heartfelt as this. I shall thank Lady Wiltshire personally this evening."

The hall is a glittering array of candles and shimmering decorations, while trumpets bray to fanfare her arrival as the great doors are opened. Beyond, her Court await her, gathered at their trestles in equally glittering finery. Philip is awaiting her, his expression one of equal pleasure, and he bows as she approaches, "Majesty."

While not formally bonded, they are now betrothed, so she offers him an exquisite curtsey, "Highness."

Taking his arm, she walks with him to the high table, where they shall sit together for the first time. It seems strange to think that she shall sit at this table from now on with her mother to her right, not her left - for that is now Philip's chair. That he has accepted the 'lesser' seat without complaint is remarkable, and she is grateful for his courtesy.

They stand together before taking their seats, and she surveys the Courtiers. They are smiling, thanks be to God; but that is hardly a surprise given the failure of an attempted invasion that would have thrown their lives into utter confusion. She is given to understand that her sister has abandoned reason in favour of fervent religious piety, and that is never a good thing if one is to rule people who do not share that piety. Smiling in return, she accepts their obeisance, and seats herself to allow the stewards to bring in the first remove.

Anne turns to look at her daughter, her eyes glistening as brightly as her jewels. How long has she waited for this moment? The moment when her darling Elizabeth finally emerges into the light of her reign, and does so with the prospect of a loving husband at her side. Few women are afforded such a luxury as a marriage that begins in such circumstances.

For a moment, she is captured by memories of Henry. Not the one she married; but the one she _wished_ to marry. Would they have known that joy? Perhaps, perhaps not: she shall never know. Thinking of that sad, lost love of her youth, she looks across to Thomas Percy, seated with the other councillors with an expression entirely at odds with those around him. Dear God, did he really think that he would ever win Elizabeth's hand for his son? It seems not - but he remains angry, and the gaps between him and the councillors who sit either side of him upon the benches are remarkably wide.

She turns back to look at Elizabeth, who is laughing delightedly at the antics of a small, bright green parrot that Philip has given her as a gift. The creature chatters and leaps up and down upon a small perch as she feeds it small grapes from a nearby dish, "She seems to be happy, Jane."

Seated alongside, Lady Wiltshire smiles, "Indeed so, Majesty. We have perhaps achieved our aim in bringing her to her inheritance to be a good and wise Queen?"

"That is my hope; though I am glad not to be obliged to place the burden upon her of what is to come. It shall be a lesson for her to observe, in the hopes that she shall not need to do the same when she rules alone."

Her eyes wander again, and she looks across to where her Chancellor and Treasurer are talking over some matter or other as they sup. As her primary councillors, they shall lead the formal enquiry into the treachery of the former Earl of Wiltshire, and the soon-to-be-former Duke of Norfolk. For a moment, she permits herself a spiteful thought as she wishes she could be present when the proud, arrogant Thomas Howard discovers that he has wasted a ridiculous sum of money upon a double agent.

No. That is a matter for tomorrow. Today, Londoners are celebrating with free victuals and wine, while church bells ring joyfully across England to celebrate her deliverance and the betrothal of her Queen. Her daughter is to wed - and happily, it seems - and her late husband's legacy shall be continued with, God willing, a son.


	55. Three Upon a Scaffold

Cromwell looks up from his papers to see that Rich is fidgeting again. He does not need to ask why; even if he did not know his friend so well, it could not be clearer that he is both eager to confront Norfolk, and nervous of doing so. It is understandable, perhaps; for all Thomas Howard's new powerlessness, he remains an intimidating figure who once planned to use the Lord Treasurer for his own ends; only to then, once that use was spent, dispatch him to a cruel death.

"Has he shown any inclination to recognise the jurisdiction of her Majesty's justice?" Rich asks, suddenly.

"As of the last letter I received from Sir William?" Cromwell answers, "No. He shall be delivered to the Tower by this evening, and I have no doubt that he shall refuse to accept any accommodation offered him on the grounds that his arrest is unlawful."

"Then put him in Little Ease." Rich snorts, "He shall soon accept the Queen's House in return for it."

Cromwell smiles, "Dream as you will, Richard. It shall be the Queen's House, regardless of his ingratitude for it. I imagine he shall expect to be permitted to lodge at his London house until he has petitioned her Majesty. That, however, shall not happen."

"It is a disappointment with which I am prepared to abide."

"Your generosity knows no bounds." Cromwell observes, dryly. Returning to his papers, he examines them with great care. That Tunstall and Boleyn have already spoken so freely has enabled him to build a solid case against them for high treason. The former Bishop was doing so in the hopes that he might be spared the scaffold; but Boleyn did so with a calm openness that spoke volumes to Cromwell of the former Earl's courage. He has sighed to himself many times since then. If only they could have won him for the Regent at the outset. It was his diligence and skill that enabled the plotters to reach the point that they did. It had taken years of hard work to build sufficient funds to afford it, and he had done so. What could he have achieved had he applied that work in the service of his daughter and her child?

He sighs again, and Rich looks up, "What is it?"

"It is such a waste." Cromwell admits, "For all his faults, Boleyn is hard working, intelligent and highly skilled in the arts of governance and diplomacy. If he had not turned from us, then I am quite convinced that Mary would never have come at us again. The former Duke of Suffolk did not share his brilliance, and thus would almost certainly have ended his days in exile reliant upon the charity of others."

"He was not banished from Court, Thomas." Rich reminds him, "Her Majesty the Regent sent him to evaluate the navy; it was, I'll warrant, a suspension from the Council while he undertook the task, but nonetheless, had he returned, he might have been rehabilitated. It was his choice to be impatient and look to another to grant back the offices that he had lost."

"Perhaps; but it is as well that he did so, for I suspect that, had he remained at Court and won higher offices than those held already, we would have faced dissension at the rise of a common family at Court."

Rich nods; it never serves a King to raise a single family too high, as the fourth Edward's children found to their cost. A council dominated by Boleyns would have been as despised as one dominated by Wydvilles.

One of the clerks approaches and hands Cromwell a small note. From the satisfied expression upon his face, Rich deduces its contents, "He is delivered to the Tower?"

"Delivered, and angry as we expected. Sir William has advised that he acts upon the orders of Her Majesty and cannot contradict them."

"When are we to examine him?"

"After I have advised their Majesties of his arrival, Richard." Cromwell cocks an eyebrow, "I think, however it might be wise to curb your eagerness to do so. I might be minded to leave you behind."

He chuckles at the look upon Rich's face as he rises to depart.

Anne is reading in her Privy Chamber when he arrives and requests an audience. Emerging, she beckons him to join her, Lady Wiltshire at her side as the inevitable chaperone. God above, even now, despite his creased face, and his hair more white than grey these days, she must guard herself against rumour.

"He is here?" She asks.

"Delivered to the tower by Sir William, Majesty." Cromwell acknowledges, "I am given to understand that he is most discomfited to find that he has not been permitted to lodge in his London home to await your pleasure."

Anne smiles, "Of course. He is the first Peer of the Realm; he would expect to be treated as such, even though his acts do not warrant it. I assume he expects to be permitted to make his representations directly to her Majesty?"

"That is likely."

"I wish that I could be present to witness his angry dismay at the discovery that he shall be obliged to speak to a Baron who is of low birth."

"And even more that the man whom he hopes to bring down with him was the man who brought him to this fate." Cromwell adds.

"In which case, I am content for you to take a delegation to the Tower to examine him. Sir William is already present, so he shall participate. I suspect that his Grace shall consider the rest of that delegation to be biased, particularly the Lord Treasurer."

Cromwell nods, "In which case, we shall depart as soon as we may, to save him the journey back to the palace. There is no need to fear the tide when one is not obliged to sail beneath London Bridge."

"That is an unusual reason for being pleased to be at Placentia, Mr Cromwell." Anne smiles and waves over one of her newer stewards, "James, please arrange for a barge to convey the Lord Chancellor and his entourage to the Tower."

Jane rises and curtseys, "If it please your Majesty, I shall advise my lord and Husband to prepare to depart."

Returning to the offices to collect Rich is a slower business than it once was, and Cromwell curses his ageing limbs. The journey shall take three hours at best, though at least he shall be free to sit within a sheltered cabin as they travel. The cold, however, serves only to worsen his discomfort, and he knows how stiff he shall be by the time they reach the Wharves.

They are, however, going - and that shall please Rich no end.

* * *

The room that they have set aside to question Norfolk is a well appointed chamber within the old palace of the Tower. In the face of victory, it seems churlish to demand an audience in a cell.

Rich is fidgeting again, an inevitable sign of his nervousness. For all his reduced circumstances, Norfolk remains an intimidating individual, and Cromwell does not blame his friend for his tension. They are all tense, after all. They have all of Norfolk's letters, and fair copies of those that Rich sent back to him, but even so Norfolk shall attempt to brazen his way out of the charges, and they must be prepared for that.

Cromwell gathers his fellow commissioners together, "Sir William, before we begin this interrogation, it is important that you are aware of the evidence against his Grace of Norfolk. Much of what we have is based upon correspondence between his Grace and the Lord Treasurer."

Stamford looks up, startled, "My Lord?" his eyes are immediately upon Rich, who reddens in spite of himself.

"I was approached by the late Imperial Ambassador some years ago, Sir William." He explains, "We felt it was an opportunity not to be missed if we were to remain aware of the activities of those who had attempted to remove her Majesty. After the Ambassador's death, I was then approached by his Grace in hopes of continuing what he thought to be a secure, surreptitious correspondence."

"We took great care to ensure that we did not encourage him to act, but instead granted information that assured him that it would be safe to do so." Cromwell adds, "It was important that he was not exhorted to remove the Queen, but instead advised that, should he plan to do it, his plans would be reasonably assured of success."

Stamford nods, "I see. And I am present as a neutral party, I take it?"

"Yes - for you were not at Court while these plots were fomenting, and thus you cannot be accused of complicity in all that has unfolded. His Grace shall fight against us with all the arguments at his command; and he shall insist, I have no doubt, that he has been falsely accused; that the letters we hold are forgeries, and that he has remained a private citizen from the moment he departed the Court."

"Which he has not." Rich adds, "And, should he attempt to deny it, we have not only the letters, but also the testimony of Thomas Boleyn."

They take their seats at the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door opens to reveal Norfolk, escorted by four guards, who glares at the men within with cold, angry eyes.

Cromwell rises, rather more stiffly than he would have liked, "Your Grace. Please be seated."

"I prefer to stand." Norfolk growls, "You have no right to interrogate me."

"I have the authority of her Majesty the Queen." Cromwell advises, blandly, "But no matter; if you prefer to stand, then that is your prerogative. I, however, shall sit."

Resuming his seat, Cromwell sets out the indictment, "Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, you are hereby formally charged with high treason against her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, France and Ireland, through the fomentation of plots with the determined intent of removing her Majesty from her lawful throne in defiance of England's Law and God's will. Also you are charged with conspiring with the exiled Thomas Boleyn and Charles Brandon, former Earl of Wiltshire and Duke of Suffolk, to set an illegitimate pretender upon that same throne in place of England's lawful Sovereign Lady and Queen. What have you to say in answer to these charges?"

Norfolk ignores his comments, "There is a traitor beside you, Cromwell." He does not offer the Lord Chancellor the courtesy of his title.

Cromwell smiles, thinly, "There is but one traitor in this room, my Lord, I assure you; and he does not sit beside me."

Norfolk snorts, derisively, "Then you are a fool. If you think that I have acted alone, then I can equally assure you that I have not. Do you think to sit before me in judgement, Rich? Were I to speak of your letters to me, then I think that you would be standing where I stand."

Rich's expression changes from a scowl to a smirk, as he rests his hand upon a wallet before him, "You mean these letters, my Lord?" he asks, all innocence.

"Would you dare to show those to the Queen?"

"I do not need to. Her Majesty the Regent has read them all, and knew of them from the beginning. Indeed, all that I have done, I have done with her knowledge and agreement." Rich is clearly enjoying himself, as Norfolk's expression changes in the face of this discovery.

"How much money have you dispatched to the continent to pay for the Dowager Queen of Sweden's attempt to steal England's crown?" Cromwell asks, coldly, "We know that you have conspired with known traitors to bring England to ruin in an ill-governed quest to force Englishmen to bow to a foreign potentate."

"And Rich did not?" Norfolk demands, "He sat upon your council and informed upon your deliberations to those who looked to restore the right rule of the Realm!"

"Did you truly believe that England was unprepared for the Dowager's fleet? Or that her Majesty was unaware of the threat posed by the former Lady Mary? We knew all, and thus could make ready for her invasion. Even had the weather not struck against her ramshackle gathering of ships, we had a fleet of sufficient size to repel her. Had we not known of her plans, then perhaps matters might have been different."

"Instead, however," Rich resumes, "She has failed in her intent - and who shall permit her to come again?"

Perhaps he should not be looking _quite_ as smug as he does; but he has not forgotten the fate that Norfolk planned for him, and is savouring the moment of minor revenge for such casual cruelty. For Norfolk, however, that smile is more than he is willing to endure, and he surges forward, leaning across the table to snatch at the smirking Baron's simarre with both hands, dragging him from his seat, "Damn you, Rich! Damn you! I should have had you slaughtered the instant I first wondered where my proclamation had gone!"

The guards hasten forward to separate the two, pulling Norfolk away, and allowing Rich to straighten his garments and resume his seat, though he looks rather shaken at being so assaulted, and is angered over it, "But you did not, my Lord. I overheard your casual decision to have me gutted like a hog for my pains, and thus I granted my loyalty elsewhere. It was not I who encouraged you to do what you did - _you_ approached _me_. We allowed you to act; nothing more - and thus it is not you who watches me upon a scaffold. Instead it is _I_ that shall watch _you_!"

The chamber is uncomfortably silent after the shouting, and Stamford is staring at his colleagues, shocked at the sudden outburst of violence, "I think, my Lords, that there is little more to be gained from this. We know that you have acted treacherously, my Lord of Norfolk - and you must answer for it. Thus you shall be tried by a jury of the nobility, and face the Queen's justice alongside those of your conspirators who have been captured."

His face darkened by a vicious scowl, Norfolk glares at them, "There is no jury that can try me - for there are no equals to me."

Cromwell's answer is delivered with another thin smile, "I think not, your Grace. From tomorrow, you shall have forfeited your noble title to her Majesty. Your trial shall be open and public - but it shall be as a common man. Tonight, her Majesty shall sign the Act of Parliament that removes you from the Peerage of England. Thus all who sit upon the jury shall be of the nobility, but you shall not. Your property is temporarily confiscated, until this matter is settled; whereupon it shall be restored to your son, whom we know to have been innocent of this conspiracy."

They watch as the guards escort Norfolk from the chamber. To his credit; in spite of all, he remains calm and collected. While he is unlikely to show contrition on the scaffold, neither shall he show misery or fear: his pride shall not permit it. Watching him, Cromwell wonders if he could have been so at ease had he been in that position.

"I shall set to work upon assembling the jury, Gentlemen." Stamford rises, gathering his papers and bowing, "I shall see you anon."

As Stamford departs, Cromwell turns to Rich, expecting to see him looking pleased at the outcome of his revelation to Norfolk; but instead he is surprised to see that his colleague seems quite despondent, "You have had your vengeance, Richard."

"I thought that I should feel satisfaction at his fury in his discovery." Rich admits, quietly, "But I do not."

"Why is that?" Cromwell can guess; but he does not wish to put thoughts in his friend's head.

"Did I lead him on, Thomas?" Rich asks, his expression shamed, "Would he have done what he did had I not been a part of his conspiracy? Had matters turned out differently, I could have brought England to ruin."

"Nay, Richard; I think that he would have done all that he did even had you not had his ear. His anger at the Queen would not have permitted him to work at our side; for he could not act as Lord Protector while a regent stood in his path."

"Once, when I was trusted by no man, I would have acted so without a second thought - and indeed I stood and perjured myself at More's trial. But now? Now, I am trusted and valued as a good Councillor; and to act as I did when Henry ruled brings me naught but shame. Even as I spoke the words to his face, I thought I should be delighted to watch him upon the scaffold in my place - but now I feel little more than a murderer."

"Such is the burden of our place, Richard." Cromwell sighs, "I think it best we return to Placentia; there is much to be done."

"I shall follow anon. Take the barge, I shall seek out a wherry."

_How men change_. Cromwell thinks to himself as he rises from his seat. Knowing that Rich wants to be alone awhile, he withdraws, leaving his colleague to his regretful contemplations in the dying light of the candles

* * *

The barge makes its slow way upriver from Placentia; though the passengers are not engaged in conversation. Jane Wiltshire sits quietly, reading a letter from William written in Latin with only a few errors. He is a bright young man, learning apace; but she wishes that he was not in the house of another family. Such is the requirement of convention, however; she can supervise the education of a daughter, but not a son.

Seated beside her, Wiltshire gazes out of the window, his expression pensive. Anne might have spent some time with their father, but he has felt uncomfortable at the prospect. Unlike his sister, he conspired with the elder Boleyn, only to turn his coat and abandon his father's cause. While he knows that he was right to do it, there still remains a sense of guilt at his lack of filial devotion.

Anne did not require him to participate in the trials of the three conspirators; completed only a day ago with all three men declared guilty. With the mountain of evidence against them, Boleyn declared himself guilty and asked the Court to accept his contrition, and his willingness to equally accept his just punishment as a traitor to the Realm. Tunstall had followed the former Earl's lead, though it had been clear to all present that his primary concern was an attempt to avoid the block rather than stand before it.

He sighs, capturing Jane's attention, and she turns to him, taking his hand, "Are you sure you wish to do this?"

"I must, my beloved." He says, "I cannot permit him to mount the scaffold without settling matters between us. Anne told me that he is proud of me; but I wish to hear it from his own mouth."

"Do you think that you failed him in some way?" Jane asks.

He closes his eyes, and nods, "I turned against him and sided with my sister in defiance of his authority over me as my father. Even though I know that I was right to do so, still I feel most remiss for my disloyalty to him."

"But he was disloyal to the Queen, George," she reminds him, "in turning from her, he became a traitor to the realm, and now he must pay the price of it. Had you done likewise, I should be facing life as a widow, and our dear William would not have been born. Instead, his Latin is improving most well, and you hold the Queen's personal seal. Had your father been less intent upon regaining that which was not his to own, then perhaps he, too, would hold an office of high state. You are not to blame for his impatient decision."

"I know." Wiltshire admits, "But nonetheless, I feel guilt."

His thoughts return to the trials. The news of Norfolk's furious refusal to accept the jury's right to try him came as no surprise to any - and he insisted that his actions were not those of a traitor, but instead a loyal Englishman who sought to restore the right rule of the Realm. Such brazen assertions - but the evidence in the letters he exchanged with the Lord High Treasurer, who was obliged to stand and give evidence in person, spoke otherwise, and the jury had no hesitation of declaring him guilty in the face of his open assertions that he would aid the Dowager Queen of Sweden in an invasion sponsored by Spain.

The warrants for their executions have been drawn up; but it is not Elizabeth who shall sign them. Such a momentous act shall remain in his sister's hands, along with the blame for it. In time, of course, the Queen shall be obliged to affix her name to a death warrant - but not today.

"She does not want to do it." Jane says, quietly, as though she has heard his thoughts, "To send her own father to the block shall stand against her, even though there is no questioning his guilt, for he proclaimed it before the jury without fear or hesitation. But she must sign the warrants, and bear the consequences thereof."

"We shall stand with her, then." Wiltshire says, "We shall aid her in carrying the burden."

They lapse back into silence, though he does not release her hand.

Their arrival at the Tower wharf is in the midst of a grey drizzle that further darkens Wiltshire's mood. A warder awaits them at the Byward Tower postern, and guides them through to the tower where the first Earl is confined, "The Constable advises that you may take as long as you wish, your Grace." He says, respectfully, as they mount the stairs, "When you are ready to depart, please strike the door."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Jane asks.

"You are the mother of his grandson, Jane." Wiltshire answers, "I think he would be pleased to see you, for you have succeeded in ensuring the continuance of our line."

Boleyn is seated at the table by the window again as they enter, and he turns, "George."

There is no hostility in his voice, only relief.

"Father."

Rising from his chair, he crosses to his son, "Come, it is warmer by the fire. There is much we must discuss; for I do not think I shall see many more days upon this earth, and it would not do for me to depart this life with matters as they are."

He seems so solicitous as to their comfort: guiding Jane to the chair beside the fireplace, bringing over the chair beside the table and indicating that Wiltshire be seated, "There is no need to say anything, George. It is I who owes contrition, not you. I can see from your face that you seek my forgiveness for an act that was wholly right. I allowed myself to be seduced by power and wealth - and my pride would not permit me to subject myself to the authority of a woman over whom I had no control. I wanted to regain that which had been taken from me, and thus allied with any who might secure it for me. Had I been more patient, then perhaps I might have won back Anne's trust - as you did."

"Maybe so, Father; but nonetheless, I am grieved that you are in such circumstances."

"Circumstances that I earned, my son. Had you done as I did, you would not be Lord Privy Seal, nor would you and your good wife have given me a grandson to carry on my name. In doing so, I know that my family name has not been destroyed by my foolish impatience; and thus I can go to God with contentment, secure in the knowledge that my children have prospered even in spite of my actions."

"Are you comfortable, sir?" Jane asks, "Is there anything that we can do to see to your welfare?"

For the first time since the day she married his son, Boleyn truly smiles at her, "You are a good woman, Jane. I was a fool not to see it. Thank you, but there is nothing that I need. Her Majesty has seen fit to ensure my comfort; I am granted books to read, and the Constable has permitted me to walk outside when the weather is fair."

Their conversation is wide ranging, lingering on memories of times past; times at Hever, and at Blickling when they were an aristocratic family headed by a talented diplomat of whom all spoke well. Jane speaks of William, and of his progress as a scholar, and more than two hours pass before the shadows emerging from the corners of the chamber rouse Boleyn from his reminiscences, and he sighs, "I think it is time."

His eyes anguished, Wiltshire rises, "I do not wish to leave, Father. Anne has no wish to condemn you; if we could save you, we would."

"I am well aware of that; your sister is a courageous woman, but also compassionate. Much as I should wish to live - for what man walks willingly towards death? I know that it cannot be done. Remind her that she must put England ahead of her personal wishes - and that I look upon her with pride. And also know that I look upon you with equal pride, for you have forged a prosperous career, and have granted me a grandson to keep my name alive." He embraces Wiltshire, grasping him tightly as his son equally grasps him. They shall not come again, and thus it is their last farewell.

Disengaging, Boleyn turns to Jane and likewise embraces her, "You have proved to be a fine wife for my son, and I am grateful that you have found joy in your marriage. Look after him."

"Most assuredly, sir. I love him dearly and shall willingly abide by the vows I made before God. We shall pray for you, and look to a time when all is mended and we are together in Heaven."

His expression reluctant, Wiltshire approaches the door and bashes it with his fist to summon the warder. They depart arm in arm, close together in shared sadness. Watching them from his window, Boleyn sighs, and returns to the table, where letters to his eldest daughter, and his granddaughter, await. They, too, must know of his contrition - and then he shall be glad to go to God, for all his accounts shall be settled.

* * *

Anne stares out of the window, her eyes upon a flawless blue sky dotted with gulls that whirl upon a cheerful breeze. She, however, is not cheerful.

Affixing her name to the three warrants still haunts her; _Signed upon this third day of December, 1549…death by beheading…Tower Hill…_ all signed with the words that once she revelled in writing: _Anne the Queen_.

The Constable of the Tower advised that the three convicted men received the news very differently. Norfolk was furious and defiant; Tunstall with quivering tears, and her father with calm acceptance. She is grateful for his bravery. Even as she watches the gulls in the wind, the knowledge that she has sent her own kin to the block chills her to the core as though she were the very soul of that frigid breeze beyond.

Margery is nearby, supposedly embroidering beside the fire, but instead constantly looking towards her with concern, "Majesty, do you not wish to sit where it is warmer?"

She does not move, or speak. Below, she can see the Queen's privy stair, where the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer and Sir William Stamford are boarding a barge that shall convey them to the Tower to join the other senior members of the Privy Council, all of whom shall be present to witness the deaths. They shall lodge there tonight, before making their way to the scaffold to stand upon it while the three men who conspired against their Queen meet their end upon the block.

It was always going to be the block, of course; the very idea of sending a man to die by hanging, drawing and quartering so appalling to her that she could not countenance it. Nonetheless, despite the legality of her act, she remains cold to the very centre of her being at the thought that, upon the morrow, three lives shall end - and it shall be done at her command. For all its burden upon her conscience, it had been comparatively simple to sign away the life of the traitor Seymour; he had entered into the service of traitors and ridden at the forefront of the insurrection at Barnet. Hard it had been - she recalls now - but nonetheless she had calmly consigned him to God with the stroke of a pen and accepted it as a necessary answer to his attempt to upend the safety of the realm. Much has happened since then, however. She is older, wiser, and years of ensuring her actions would not impact upon her daughter have left her careful to avoid setting precedents that would pain Elizabeth to perpetuate. The casual execution of subjects would most assuredly be one such act.

So now she sits and ruminates upon her actions. Actions that she cannot undo; no matter how much she might wish to.

Below in the barge, unaware of that silent scrutiny, Cromwell seats himself awkwardly, for the cold is aggravating his hip, while Rich gazes out of the window at the filthy water and says nothing. Sir William takes his seat, and nods to the pilot that they can depart, "It is a cold day in more aspects than one, my Lords."

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "We have been most fortunate in that so few have been sent to the block by royal command; His late Majesty seemed quite content to sign warrants for execution, even from the first days of his reign." He remembers that grim cavalcade; men cast aside and destroyed for - in some cases - mere trifles that could have been easily mended by other means. To this day, he still wonders if he might have been one of them had Henry lived.

They say little else for the rest of the journey. What, after all, is there to say? They could discuss the preparations for the coming Christmastide celebrations - but that seems utterly inappropriate in the circumstances; or perhaps lesser matters of governance that are ongoing. Instead, the grim task that they must perform upon the morrow hangs over them all like a shadow, and they sit in silence; the only sound the creaking and splashing of the oars.

The rooms that have been prepared for them are within the walls of the old palace: comfortable, if a little battered. As they alighted at the Tower wharf, they could all see the work being done at the height of the hill before them, a great platform, surrounded by railings and offering excellent views for all who would wish to watch; and now there is word from the warders that already people are gathering, hoping to have the best views by being placed at the front.

Warwick and Bedford are already present, though Wiltshire has sought - and received - consent not to attend. Cranmer is in the Church of St Peter, and shall join them anon when supper is served, though Cromwell is quite certain that victuals are unlikely to be consumed, for they certainly hold no appeal to him now.

"I should be pleased." Bedford sighs, "And yet, I am not. England is safe from invasion; but at the same time, I am hard put to believe that the Dowager's fleet could possibly have succeeded with so few ships and men. It feels almost as though we are kicking an already beaten dog."

Warwick nods, "Indeed; the letters from his Imperial Majesty disavowing the entire enterprise have been frequent and most fulsome in their excuses. That she left from Cadiz, and left with ships and captains, ensures that there must have been at least some support."

"Indulgence, I suspect." Cromwell answers, "His Imperial Majesty doubtless looked upon the Lady's arrival and demands with annoyance and even consternation, for she wished to overturn all that he has attempted to achieve by opening up hostilities with another nation when he is already heavily engaged against several others. It may be that he dispatched her to Cadiz merely to remove her from his presence."

"Should she return to Spain, then he shall not welcome her." Rich mutters, picking at a loose thread upon a nearby wall hanging, "Her failure has embarrassed him, and caused him to look disingenuous, for he claims to treat us upon peaceful terms while an invasion force is sent against us. She shall be fortunate to be permitted to enter the Alhambra - assuming, of course, that she ever arrives there." They have no idea if her ship is even afloat, much less where it might actually be.

Supper is, as Cromwell expected, of little appeal to the men who have gathered, and most consume only a few mouthfuls before individually withdrawing to their chambers. Only Rich remains as he sips at his claret, shredding a piece of bread.

"It is hard, is it not?" Cromwell murmurs.

"I have sent innocent men to the block with my lies, Thomas; and cared not one whit." Rich answers, miserably, "Now, I am responsible for three more men facing such an end; and, despite my knowledge that they are guilty and that I spoke no more than the truth, I am riven with guilt. I encouraged their enterprise, and told them that which they wished to hear. Had I not done so, then perhaps the fleet might never have put to sea at all."

"I think not, Richard." Cromwell reminds him, "Boleyn himself stated that Mary was adamant that she would sail, and he is certain that not even the knowledge of a superior force opposing her would have stayed her hand. Her actions were driven more by a determination to rescue England from eternal damnation than a desire to unseat a rival - from his testimony, it appears that she had abandoned reason in favour of a religious fervour that would have shocked even the most fanatical of catholics upon the continent. In her mind, she was doing God's will, and thus no degree of argument could have swayed her to think otherwise."

Rich sets the ruined slice down, "I am grateful now that her Majesty demanded I give the money to the poor. Were I to have kept it, then I think it should have weighed me down into darkness more heavily than the thirty pieces of silver."

Cromwell sets a hand upon his shoulder, "And thus you are a better man than once you were, for your remorse is proof of it. Tomorrow shall be hard, yes; but once it is done, we shall be free of the threat of Mary once and for all, and there shall be a wedding to celebrate for the true Queen of England."

* * *

When Cromwell opens his eyes, he is startled to have done so; for he did not expect to sleep at all. The room is dark, yes, but the Tower clock has just struck six, and even now the confessors shall be attending the prisoners who are to die this morning, even though they shall not emerge to face the block until nine.

Rising from his bed, he limps to the window and looks out to see a light dusting of early snow upon the cobbles of the Tower passageways. Reaching for a fur-trimmed robe, he wraps himself up in it and watches awhile as the flakes gently appear, and vanish, in the lights of the flambeaux that still flicker in the last of the night.

Cursing his age, he eases himself into a chair, his hip too painful to remain standing. He shall be obliged to do the same upon the scaffold, though he shall not be short of sympathy from the crowd, as Londoners are as fervent for reform as even Cranmer, and see him not as a monster who destroyed the old ways, but a great politician who has worked to serve the needs of those who are not wealthy, and who has never turned away any who have approached him for aid. None shall jeer him upon that scaffold; no, that shall be reserved for the three men who attempted to bring a Catholic fanatic to their shores and drive them all to the stake. The wonder of rumour.

He turns at the sound of a light knock upon his door, and his summons reveals a young man lent to him as a manservant during his stay, who carries a basin and pitcher of hot water for him to wash, and the means to shave him. While not as capable as his own man, the youth is competent in matters of toilet and aiding with the donning of garments, and Cromwell soon emerges, leaning on his stick, to make his way up to the Chapel of St Peter. God is everywhere, yes; but sometimes it is most appropriate to approach Him on consecrated ground. As he approaches, he can see that the candles within are lit, and is grateful; for thus he shall not be obliged to find his way in the dark.

Removing the warm scholar's cap that crowns his head, he carefully brushes off the snowflakes, then limps his slow, tapping way along the primary nave to the altar rail. Kneeling is a sequence of cracks, and grunts of pain; but, once settled, he is more comfortable, and able to absorb himself in prayer.

With little means to mark the passage of time, he is unaware of how long has passed when he is roused from his contemplations by the sound of approaching footsteps. Before long Warwick is beside him, and then Bedford. Shortly afterwards, Rich appears, relieved to find that he is neither alone, nor the last to arrive, before Stamford joins them; a row of five before God.

None speak, instead each involved in his own contemplations; and it is the sound of the clock outside striking the half hour past seven that finally brings them collectively to their feet, "Today shall be a hard day, Gentlemen." Cromwell advises, as he gathers his stick to depart, "But with God's aid, we shall meet it, and England shall move on."

Victuals have been set for them in the old Palace, but none seem willing to make a meal, instead sitting around and waiting for the moment when they shall be obliged to leave; a departure that shall be prefaced by the arrival of the guards who shall escort them. Outside, the snow has become heavier now, a thick curtain of flakes that drop to the earth as though weighted with lead. Watching them, Rich sighs, "If this does not stop, then the prisoners shall be wet, cold and shivering - the crowd shall think them afraid, and I think only Tunstall is fearful."

Stamford looks up, "Her Majesty decreed that, in deference to the cold season, they shall be permitted to wear warm garments to make the journey to the scaffold, and shall be obliged to remove them only at the last. I think that would include thick cloaks to keep the snow from them."

The snow has deepened by the time they emerge to walk to the enormous scaffold that awaits Norfolk, Tunstall and Boleyn, but the way has been cleared by a small team of warders, and thus their pace is slowed only by Cromwell's inevitable arthritic limp. Emerging across the drawbridge from the great gatehouse, it is clear that an enormous crowd has gathered, despite the weather, and a troop of halberdiers has been sent to ensure that a way through that press of bodies is available. It is clear that the approaching party is not the prisoners, and thus the noise is not too great; but nonetheless, Cromwell can see that his fellow Councillors are made as uncomfortable as he by that fearsome gathering, and just as grateful that they are not the ones facing its ire.

The executioner is already present, hooded and awaiting his charges, while two assistants sweep the snow from the boards with besoms. Further back, a canvas canopy has been hastily erected to keep the snowfall from the Councillors who are to witness the deaths, and a heavy chair is ready for Cromwell, who cannot possibly stand for so long a time as this unfortunate procedure shall demand.

Mounting the steps is uncomfortable for the Chancellor, but there is room for another to stand beside him, and Stamford aids him as he climbs, before he is able to make his own way to the chair, and sit down. Rich stands alongside, with Bedford and Warwick, while Stamford moves to end the line. Now, they must wait.

The first indication that matters are progressing is a shift in the sound of the crowd, as a murmur shivers through the gathering. Then it starts: the jeering, the hurling of insults. It could not be clearer that the three prisoners are coming.

Seated in his chair, Cromwell senses, rather than sees, Rich go tense at the sound. For all his behaviour in those gone days when he acted against better men than he, he was not present to witness their deaths. Now, however, he must do so as a Privy Councillor, and know that - but for his involvement - things might have turned out entirely differently. It could not be clearer that he wishes to be anywhere other than here.

The irony is that, this time, Londoners view his actions as heroic - for his involvement was aimed at preventing a foreign invasion of England, not aiding it. How strange that he sees it in the absolute opposite light.

The noise of the crowd grows louder as the men approach, and finally Norfolk appears, stepping up onto the scaffold with that air of haughty superiority that has never left him. He is warmly wrapped in a fur trimmed cloak, and glares at the men he faces with cold anger. He knows, as do they, that there is no messenger racing to this spot with a hastily composed reprieve.

"She always hated me." He hisses at Cromwell, "And now she has murdered me. She shall stand before God to pay for it."

Cromwell ignores him, sitting quietly as though the words are naught but a breath of wind.

Tunstall is behind; fearful, yes, but composed. Perhaps his fear is more of what lies beyond the block, rather than that moment itself, for he has aided an act of treachery, and now must answer to God for it.

Then Boleyn steps up onto the platform. Unlike his fellow prisoners, he is calm, almost relieved that the moment has come. Bizarrely, he smiles at the gathered Councillors, and nods his head to them respectfully. Whatever he says to the Crowd, it shall be loyal, and doubtless worth hearing.

The Chaplain of the Chapel of St Peter is reading from a book of scripture. Convention demands that executions are undertaken in order of precedence; so, regardless of the removal of his privileges, it is Norfolk who shall face the block first.

His expression cold, he steps forth to stand before the straw that will soon accept his knees, turns to pay the Executioner, then looks back at the people who have come to watch him die "I am a true, loyal Englishman, and I go to God with my conscience clean! As God is my witness, I sought only to bring men back to the true Faith, and free England from the stain of heresy at the hands of a usurper! Thus I die a martyr, but I am glad that I did what I could for the true Queen of England in the knowledge that my sacrifice shall be celebrated in Heaven. God save the Queen Mary!"

Ignoring the furious roar of the crowd, he shrugs off the warm cloak, and drops to his knees to set his head upon the block. Behind him, Cromwell smiles in admiration. Even at the last, he has cleaved to his principles, and refuses to set them aside. For all his bombast, it is a courageous act, and only a fool would think otherwise.

Those last words seem to have annoyed the executioner as much as the crowd, and his swing of the axe is powerful, cleaving through skin and bone with a sharp crunch that is stilled by the thud of the blade biting into the wood below. Beside him, Cromwell knows that several of his colleagues have averted their eyes at the ghastly fountain of blood that has spewed from the severed neck, but he forces himself to continue watching as the Executioner steps forth, grasps the head by its hair and lifts it for the view of the baying throng, "Here is the head of a Traitor!"

The crowd cheer, and people are leaning forward, attempting to dip kerchiefs in the blood that has dribbled over the side of the platform; Tunstall, however, sways as though he might faint. While he is not a member of the nobility, he is one of the Lords Spiritual, and it has been decreed that he shall be next. Remarkably, Boleyn hastily steadies him, whispering exhortations to be brave, for they have all confessed, and thus shall approach God shriven. Is that not the best way to end one's life?

With a deep breath, Tunstall gathers himself as the headless corpse of Thomas Howard is dragged away. The jeering has died down now; all want to hear what he has to say.

"Good Christian people." He begins, rather more steadily than perhaps even he expected, "I have come here to lay down my life for my sin. I turned from my Queen, and sought to bring another to steal her throne. Thus I face just punishment for my crime. I ask you to pray for my soul, in forgiveness, and to pray for the life of both her Majesty the Queen, and her noble mother, the Queen Regent, against whom I have offended, for her kind mercy in granting me a nobler death than I rightly deserve. Thus I give my life to God in hopes of resurrection and forgiveness, and shall be permitted to stand together with my fellow men in Christ. God save her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England."

There is no jeering this time. Instead, there is silence as people take in his words of contrition and seem to accept them. There is a degree of mumbling further back amongst those who did not hear his speech so well, but the crowd watch quietly as he also hands over the fee to the Executioner, drops his cloak from his shoulders, takes to his knees and rests his head upon the block that has been wiped over with straw to remove at least some of the blood.

"One stroke." Cromwell can hear Rich whispering, almost faintly, "One stroke. Just one. Please God, just one." He is relieved that his colleague is hating this as much as he is. Fortunately, that quiet prayer is answered, and for the executioner is highly experienced, and knows what he is about.

Only Boleyn remains. He has been obliged to watch two men die bloodily and unpleasantly in front of him, knowing that he shall share that fate - but he has not, at any time, shown fear, or dismay, or horror at what is to come. Instead, he steps forth and faces the Councillors, bowing to them formally, before turning back to the crowd, "Good English people. I have offended against England. I have offended against you, and I have offended against her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Thus I stand here justly and rightly; having betrayed my own kin, and the rightful Queen of this realm. I ask that you look upon me with forgiveness for my actions, and learn from my presumption. Men should not be impatient to grasp all that they can. They must be content with what they have, and look to better themselves with temperance, faith and goodness. I sought to raise myself as a Lord Protector, and was prevented - but still I looked to take that which was not mine to have. That I stand here now is proof to all that God did not look upon our actions with approval, but instead sent His aid to His chosen anointed Queen.

"If any look upon my death as martyrdom, I demand that they cease to do so. I am a justly convicted traitor against the realm of England, and I die for that crime, not for any other end. While my acts of good are few in number, I look to the next life with joy, for I have truly repented and confessed my sins before God and place my hopes in Him that I shall be forgiven and welcomed to His table. For those of you who remain as I take my leave of this life, I ask only that you live well, live kindly and live loyally. Pray for me, but moreover pray for the life of the Queen, for those who give her good counsel and loyal service, and for England. May God save her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and grant her long life and many children to continue the name of Tudor, after her late lord and Father, King Henry of England. I thank you for your kindness in hearing my last words."

Again, there is silence as he hands his purse of monies to the Executioner, hands his cloak to one of the assistants, with the exhortation that he keep it, and sets himself upon his knees before the block. In spite of Boleyn's insistence to Anne that she must not reprieve him, Cromwell finds himself tensing, waiting for a cry from a messenger to halt the execution; though Boleyn himself seems not to expect it, and calmly sets his head down, ensuring that there is ample room for the axe to sever his neck.

One stroke, and it is done.

From his seat, Cromwell sighs as people in the crowd again step forth to dip kerchiefs in Boleyn's blood. It is done; now he must return to Placentia and tell the Queen that her father is dead.

* * *

Anne is still at the window. Her only deference to the passage of time is that she is now seated, and a warm stole has been set about her shoulders, at Margery's insistence. Jane is now present, as is Wiltshire, while Mary stands alongside her sister, but says nothing.

The barge arrived half an hour ago, in the midst of a thick snowstorm. All those who were sent to witness the deaths disembarked, but only the Lord Chancellor shall attend her to report upon how the procedure went.

There is a knock upon the door, and Cromwell is admitted. She does not need to look back: she can hear the thud of his stick upon the carpet as he approaches her.

"It is done?" She asks.

"Yes, Majesty. While Norfolk was defiant to the last, both the former Bishop Tunstall and Thomas Boleyn spoke well, seeking the crowd's forgiveness for their sins and asking them to pray for the life of the Queen."

"And their remains?"

"The heads of Norfolk and Tunstall shall be set upon pikes at London Bridge, Majesty, while their other remains are coffined at All Hallows by the Tower until the heads are removed and brought back. Then they shall be interred in the Chapel of St Peter. Sir Thomas Boleyn, however, shall lie in the same church until preparations are made for his funeral as is determined by his family."

Finally, she turns, "So he shall not be set upon a pike."

"No, Majesty. Out of deference to his kinship to her Majesty, and to you, his remains shall be interred in a place chosen by the family." He looks about at her siblings, clearly including them in his statement.

"Then all is done well, Mr Cromwell."

"It is done, Majesty."

"Thank you."

He bows, and departs.

She remains absolutely still as Wiltshire crosses to stand to her right, as Mary stands to her left. Behind them, Jane hastily ushers everyone out, and steps out with them. Now is not the time for company.

"And thus we are orphaned." Anne says, quietly.

"But we remain, Sister." Wiltshire answers, taking her hand, "And thus our name shall live on."

Slowly, she rises from her chair, as Mary takes her other hand. There are no more words to say. Holding tightly to each others' hands, the three Boleyn children look out in silence at the softly falling snow.


	56. A Band of Welsh Gold

The great harbour walls of Cadiz lie ahead; walls he thought he would never see again. Even now, Brandon has no idea how it is that they have managed to get here without the ship foundering, or their being taken captive on the brief occasions they were forced ashore to water.

True to her word, Mary has not so much as glanced at him since their argument - it must be near-on four months ago, so long have they been at sea. She has not demanded that he return that chain of office - perhaps she has forgotten that he has it - and still he fidgets with it from time to time; as though it was a gift from his long-dead King, rather than his long-deluded daughter, and treasures it as such.As he examines that enamelled badge yet again, and the colourful red-gold-and-blue arms of England upon it, he thinks back to that moment: the moment that he made a determined promise to a departed soul, and never imagined where that promise might lead.If Mary is deluded now, then perhaps he was deluded then.Brandon sighs; no merit now in regrets - he made his decision, and now he must live with the consequences.

Captain Parramon has marked off each day in a ledger, as he used to do when he travelled the open seas, but other than that, the men aboard have been sullen, doing only the minimum that is required of them before slinking off to their hammocks, or finding some other place to grouch and complain amongst themselves. They know, as he does, that they shall not receive so much as a groat for the work that they have done. Indeed, they have not eaten for the last three days, having been obliged to make do with whatever fish they could catch upon long lines dangled from the rails since the beans ran out. Fish that have not been biting.

Two of Mary's women are dead; one washed overboard in a particularly brutal storm somewhere out in the ocean, while the other went mad and threw herself off the ship in hopes of swimming to shore, despite there being no shore visible in any direction. She herself has been closeted in her cabin, engaged in obsessive devotions to the degree that those of her women who still survive have long since abandoned her to it; seeking instead to blot out their misery with drink; or, when that ran out, through liaisons with the sailors.

A movement catches his eye and he turns to see that Mary has come up on deck, looking about as though she expects to see something. Dear Christ, does she assume that she shall be welcomed by a flotilla of nobility to escort her to the quay? Her ship is a ruined tub! The sails are tattered and poorly mended, while what paint was on the keel flakes away to expose the sodden wood beneath. That they are afloat at all is a miracle; why on earth would anyone wish to escort such a hulk to the dockside?

Helena is with her; the one member of her Swedish retinue still alive since Nils died of some ghastly fever or other while they were rounding the north of Scotland. Thin, haggard and dressed in shabby garments that have not been brushed for months, she seems bemused by her mistress's behaviour, "Majesty?"

"Where are they?" she asks, "Why has my cousin not sent out ships to escort me to his side?"

Brandon blinks. She does. She really does believe that the Emperor shall welcome her home. Has she truly clung so devotedly to that belief that it has taken this moment to dispel her delusions?

"I do not know, Majesty." Helena sighs, tiredly. She must have realised long ago that such a thing was less than likely, but has been unable to admit as much to Mary.

Then, bizarrely, inconceivably, she is angry; furious, even, "How dare he! How _dare_ he! I am the Queen of England, and he leaves me to make my own way to shore! Once I have recovered my realm, I swear that I shall raise all of Christendom against him for his behaviour towards me!"

Everyone is staring at her, though only a few people understand her words, for she speaks in English, as she has done consistently from the moment she decided that she would be England's Queen again. Infuriated, Brandon moves from his position at the main mast and calls across to her, "He has not come because you are Queen of no one, and nowhere! He has no wish to be seen to aid you, not now, not ever again! If we are even permitted to land it shall be a miracle, for he must grovel and apologise to England for sponsoring an invasion fleet even while he spoke to them of peace! God's blood, woman! Cease this madness and accept that you have lost!"

The two women turn. Helena looks at him almost with relief, for he has said that which she does not dare to say. Mary, however, glares at him, "I did not give you leave to speak to me."

"I no longer care what you do, or do not, give me leave to do. I was a fool; I made a promise to a good friend that I swore that I would keep; but I did not appreciate its end, and now it is plain before me that I should have been wiser never to have made it. Set down this obsession, my Lady. You threw your dice in this great game of royalty, and you lost. In spite of all that we have done, you have not regained England's crown, nor have you won the love of Englishmen, for they sailed out in their ships not to join you, but to repel you. There is naught left for you to do now but fling yourself upon the mercy of your cousin, and hope to God that he shall permit you to return to your grandmother's palace in Zaragoza, there to abide in obscurity for the rest of your days."

She does not answer, instead turning her back upon him; and he sighs in resignation. She does not accept his words - for she cannot bring herself to do it. All about her crumbles to dust - but her sanity hinges upon that faltering edifice, and props it up with imaginings that the catholic princes of Europe are keen to enforce counter-reformation in England. They are; but it is, however, not politically expedient to do so at this time, so they hold back. Nonetheless, she remains determined that they shall welcome her, and give her more men and ships to seize England back for God.

Brandon is relieved, though amazed, that the Harbourmaster gives them leave to dock. No sooner has the gangplank been lowered, than Mary looks at him briefly, "I have no place in my retinue for disloyalty. You are no longer permitted in my presence. Fare you well." Turning away, she looks around, apparently still expecting some sort of escort. Shrugging his shoulders, Brandon hefts the small pack that contains all his remaining worldly belongings, and trudges away.

Drawing herself up as best she can, given her poor state of dress and diminutive stature, Mary turns to Helena, "Where are Alice and Charlotte? I require their services."

"They have not disembarked, Majesty." Helena admits, "I think they have decided to seek passage back to England; and shall do what they must to earn the monies required to pay for their passage."

"Then they are godless whores." Mary snaps, revolted, "As I have no man to do it, I must ask you to hire horses for our journey back to Granada."

Helena shuffles slightly, embarrassed, "I shall require coin to do so, Majesty. I have none."

For the first time since she dismissed Brandon from her service while they were at sea, Mary seems to begin to appreciate that matters are not as she sees them, "Then - we have no money?"

"None, Majesty. All that we can do is sell our jewels."

"Then do so."

"I have none. They were stolen by the sailors while we were at sea. I know not who has them now." She indicates the bag that she carries, "All that lie within are those that you brought with us."

Mary stares at her, appalled, "I cannot - those are gifts from my late Lord, and my parents. I cannot sell them…"

Helena's deference begins to slip under the weight of her rising temper, "If you do not, then we shall have no horses, no roof over our heads and no victuals."

"I shall approach the City fathers. They shall aid us upon the promise of reward from my Cousin."

"They shall laugh at you and shut the doors of the Town Hall in your face." Helena retorts, "Do you not see what you look like? You look little better than a fishwife! Your garments are shabby and threadbare, your hood askew! You wear no jewels and look not one inch a Queen! If you are to even pretend to be what you once were, you must throw yourself upon the mercy of the Emperor and hope that he shall not claim that he does not know you!"

For a moment, Mary is tempted to shriek back at Helena, but her pride stops her; to start screeching at one another like a pair of those fishwives that Helena spoke of is too humiliating to countenance. Instead, she scowls, "Then sell my inheritance if you must. I care not. Once I have spoken to my Cousin, I shall be granted all that is rightfully mine, and I shall return to England, with _loyal_ servants."

Helena cannot miss that loaded comment, "Am I not loyal?" she demands, enraged, "I abandoned my home to follow you! My life in Sweden! I have stood by your side when others would not - and now you question my loyalty? If you are not willing to accept that this is madness, then that is your right as a madwoman! There is a Swedish factor here, I have no doubt of it. Thus I shall go to him and seek his aid to secure passage to my homeland, for I know that I shall be welcome there, if I am not welcome here!" Tears streaming down her face, she drops the bag to the floor, turns upon her heel and stalks off.

"Helena! Come back at once! Come back _now!_ I am the Queen! You do not walk away from me! You do not!" It is only as her distraught Gentlewoman disappears from view that she finally notices the passers by looking at her and staring in amusement at her angry tirade, and stops. The only consolation is that they are Spanish, and thus do not understand her furious demands in English.

Reddening in humiliation, she retrieves the dropped bag, and looks around. The last time she was here, she was guided by guards and a helpful Councillor, and she paid no attention to her surroundings. She has not the first idea where she is, or where that town-house was. It has been a long, long time since she was last without servants at her beck and call; but if she must accept that state, she shall. It did not last then, and it shall not last now. Lifting the bag as best she can, she turns and heads away from the Quay.

* * *

The newly ennobled Viscount Stamford of Lincoln looks at the sheafs of paper with satisfaction, "It is excellently organised, Sir Ralph, you have done most well."

Sadleir grins at him, "It has been a long, long time since a Queen was wedded so publicly, my Lord. Neither the first of Henry's Queens nor her Majesty the Regent were married in the Abbey at Westminster as she shall be. I think it was her Grandmother who was wedded there last."

In deference to the faiths of the celebrants, Cranmer has agreed - albeit rather grudgingly - to conduct the wedding mass in Latin as well as English. Much as he would be keen to remove all Popery from England, he is well aware that neither the Queen, nor her mother, are so entrenched in the view that all should believe as he does, and thus he compromises, as they do.

By anglicising his name, taking an English peerage and proclaiming himself an Englishman, Philip has succeeded remarkably well in winning over the people. For Anne, who even now has never entirely overcome the stain of being 'the King's whore', his success is a great relief. Perhaps the men of the realm believe that he shall step forth and look after the ruling of England while Elizabeth steps back and concentrates solely upon the bearing of children, and thus they overlook his foreign origin. He, however, looks to the example of Ferdinand and Isabella, who ruled equally, and has sworn upon oath that he shall do nothing without looking to his wife.

She sighs to herself. How easy it is to say such a thing; whether he shall be able to keep to that promise is another matter entirely. All know that the man is the head of the household, and the wife is just another piece of his property. She must be obedient to him in all things, always; and work only to secure his happiness, and provide him with children. Henry expected that of her - and learned to despise her when she could not comply. It is only once they are married, that all shall discover whether the young man from Portugal is truly able to accept such an aberration in his marriage.

Mr Cromwell has done what he can to ensure that Philip shall have worthwhile activities to occupy him as the King Consort of England; the Council has agreed to appoint him Warden of the North, to oversee the government of the northern counties that even now remain deeply wedded to the old ways. As he is of their faith, they are more likely to accept him than some protestant Lord; while the work involved in both keeping the peace north of Pomfret, and watching the border with the Scots, shall be a worthwhile challenge for him in terms of both politics and diplomacy.

"Majesty?" Cromwell asks, surprised at the small sound that she has uttered.

"Forgive me." She smiles back at her Council, "It is perhaps the sadness of a mother who knows that her child is shortly to spread her wings and depart the nest. Forgive me, Sir Ralph; I am most grateful for your hard work in making the arrangements for her Majesty's nuptials. It shall be a day of great celebration and spectacle."

"It shall be but the first, Majesty." Wiltshire reminds her, "Upon the occasion of her marriage, while she is not entirely of age, it seems appropriate that she should assume her full rights as Queen, and thus we should organise some ceremony to mark it, should we not? We must grant his Grace of Wessex the Crown of a Prince Consort, and thus it seems appropriate to undertake a celebration akin to a second coronation - albeit less costly, I think."

There is a ripple of amusement around the table.

"That seems wise, my Lord. Sir Ralph, might I prevail upon you to investigate preparations for such an event?"

Trying not too look too smug, he burrows into his wallet, and fetches out some rough papers, "I have begun to make notes to commence such an undertaking, Majesty."

Bedford snorts with laughter, "I see his Grace of Oakham has taught you well, Sir Ralph."

The collective mood of the Court has lightened considerably since that chill day in December that saw the end of the conspiracy to bring Mary back to England's shores. Christmastide was celebrated with much merriment, and the prospect of a grand royal wedding as the year draws to its close has ensured that the Realm's happiness has remained high.

There is, alas, one amongst the throng who seems not to share the general sense of merriment; his expression rather grim, Sir Thomas Percy has said not one word since the discussions of the Council turned to the wedding. From his seat alongside the Regent, Cromwell looks across at him, but says nothing. All know that he had schemed to wed his son to the Queen, in hopes of glory for himself. That such a thing was never possible is meaningless; and now he sits and sulks while the young man who she was always intended to marry shall wed her in a week's time. Such a fool. Better to swallow his pride and enjoy the Queen's happiness, while seeking a more appropriate match for his son - but the pride of the Earls of Northumberland is hardly unknown; they had shattered the happiness of two people, as they had no wish for the scion of their house to marry the low-born daughter of a knight. Thus that daughter married a King instead, and now her daughter rules England. Had they accepted her, then God alone knows where he would be now.

The council move on to other business, "I have heard from Sir Anthony Greene that his Majesty, King John of Sweden, has dismissed a substantial portion of his council, proclaiming them to be traitors and providers of evil counsel." Cromwell reports, "It seems that he has learned that they told him lies about his mother, and turned him against her when, in fact, she was a good and loving mother to him, and a loving wife to his father. Furthermore, he has issued a proclamation that, should she wish to return to Sweden, she shall be welcomed and her lands and titles restored in full. Equally, he has begun to make overtures to the remaining outposts of the Catholic faith in his realm, looking to reach a religious settlement in honour of his mother."

"Do you think she shall accept such an offer, assuming that she is even still alive?" Warwick asks.

"I am given to understand, from rumours overheard by a number of merchants in the port at the time, that she has returned to Cadiz; though I know little more than that. If she has departed Cadiz for Granada, it is unlikely that the Emperor shall welcome her to his Palace. Assuming that she shall learn of her son's change of heart, it shall be for his Imperial Majesty to aid her in returning to Sweden. She may choose not to."

It is strange to be so blind to Mary's circumstances after years of being well informed. With no one left to report to him, Rich shrugs, "I have nothing, Majesty."

There is another ripple of amusement amongst the councillors.

"I think it is safe to say that we need not fear another fleet under Mary's command, gentlemen." Anne smiles, "I had hoped that would be the case when she first departed the realm; but now I am entirely assured of it. If God had wanted her to rule England, then she would have ruled England. She did not. Therefore it was not God's will, and I am grateful to Him for choosing Elizabeth to do so."

"As are we all, Majesty." Cromwell concurs.

* * *

His Imperial Majesty, Charles V, is in the midst of his dinner, and is not pleased to be disturbed, "What is it?"

"Forgive me, Majesty." The steward is embarrassed, "I have another missive from the Dowager Queen of Sweden."

Scowling, the Emperor takes the letter and breaks the seal, before giving it a cursory glance. Again, she demands that he accept her return to the Palace, and that he grants her deference due to her state as Queen of England. Dropping the letter to the tiled floor, he turns back to his dinner, "I shall send no more replies. Any further letters that are sent should be burned unopened."

"Yes, Majesty." The steward departs.

Charles returns to his plate of mussels, and resumes picking out the meats using one of the emptied shells as pincers. He has been obliged to grovel to that heretic child-queen enough as it is. His cousin is queen of no one, and nowhere - but she demands to be treated as though she is the Queen of Heaven Herself. Countless replies refusing aid have already been sent to her; but she equally refuses to accept them. Thus he shall not bother any more. If she has no wish to listen to him, then she shall find that he has tired of speaking, and thus there shall be no more words for her to not listen to.

Perhaps he should give her sufficient funds to travel safely to Zaragoza, and live out the rest of her days there; but he knows that she shall not do it. If he were to offer even the smallest degree of aid, she would assume that more would follow, and that a new _armada_ would set sail before the year was out. Better to abandon her in Cadiz, and let her work it out for herself.

* * *

The cell is small, furnished only with a wooden cot, upon which is set a mattress stuffed with straw, a table and chair and a single crucifix upon the wall, while a small window lets in a degree of light. Upon her knees, Mary works her way along her rosary again, while, beyond the door of her accommodation, the community of Carmelite sisters go about their daily devotions and work.

With no-one else willing to offer her a place to rest her head - well, not without demanding substantial payment that she cannot meet, even if she could bring herself to pawn her jewels -she has come here, and looked to the hospitality of the Sisters to aid her in her quest to reclaim her just rights and inheritances. Her letters to her cousin have been dispatched daily, but he no longer replies. Thus she prays for God to soften his hardened heart, and send the response that she wishes for: the one that shall welcome her back to his Court, grant her all that she needs to pay for the fleet that shall win England for her, and send her there with his blessing. She has burned the refusals, offended by the rudeness that they expressed.

With no news from any source, she has no idea how things stand in Europe. She has dispatched letters to Rome, entreaties that his Holiness prevail upon the Emperor to aid her in her holy quest; but they, too, remain unanswered. Perhaps, however, they have not reached him. She shall compose another once her devotions are complete.

After another two hours, she sets the rosary aside and rises to her feet, forcing herself to ignore the painful stiffness of her knees. Just in time, too; for the door opens and a shy Sister enters with a tray upon which is set the simple meal that all share within these walls: a small portion of a thin stew of onions and beans, with rough, slightly gritty bread and a cup of water drawn from the clear well at the centre of the tiny convent. They exchange no words, for the Sister is bound by silence as required by the Rule of the house. Speech is not for any purpose other than to glorify God, and must not be used at any other times unless the consequences of keeping silence are a greater sin than breaking it.

There is something else upon that tray, and she snatches it up with almost greedy excitement, for it bears a papal seal. It shall not be from his Holiness - even she would not expect such a thing - but at least one of his Cardinals shall bring her the news that she seeks.

_Lady, I am asked to advise you that it is the will of his Holiness that you do not return to the palace of his Imperial Majesty, but instead retire to a life of service to God as his true Daughter in Christ; there to earn God's blessing through good works in His name._

There is naught but an unintelligible signature at the bottom - not even a name that she can read. For all she knows, it could have come from a mere scribe in the lowest house of the Vatican. It could not be more of a dismissal if it had contained the words 'Go away' and nothing else.

In which case, all men have truly abandoned her. All. There is not a single soul that shall lift so much as a finger to bring her to her rightful inheritance. She has failed. Failed her father; failed her mother. Her sainted mother…

In a single instant, her fury is impossible to contain. Her shriek is wild and her hands grasp at that tray, hurling it, and all upon it, at the wall.

By the time the Sisters come running, the tray is upon the floor, the dish in two pieces, while the stew drips down the wall to puddle upon the tamped earth. Mary has fallen silent, and now sits upon her bed, straight and calm, "I wish to speak to the reverend Mother." For the first time since her arrival, she has abandoned the English tongue, and makes her request in Spanish.

Exchanging glances, they stare at her, and one turns to fetch the head of their House.

Upon her arrival, Mary looks at her, then goes down upon her knees, "Reverend Mother, it seems that there is no place for me in the world, and thus I wish to leave it. I ask that you admit me to this community as a serving Sister in Christ."

Enough is enough. If men have tired of her, she knows that God shall not. It is time to turn away from a world in which she seems no longer to belong, and spend her remaining days in contemplation and atonement for her abject failure to save her realm.

* * *

The court has removed back to Whitehall over the last two weeks, and a grand blue carpet has been laid from the Hall at Westminster Palace to the great west door of the Abbey Church. The last Queen to marry within those walls was Elizabeth of York, and now another Elizabeth, her granddaughter, shall follow in her footsteps. Thank God it isn't raining.

The weather is crisp and bright, a fine February morning that promises to remain fair throughout. Already Londoners are gathering from across the City, eager to see their Queen as she makes her way to marry a fine young man who fought to save England from foreign invasion, and declared himself as English as they.

Preparations for the ceremony that shall formally transfer all rights and privileges of a Queen from mother to daughter are well advanced, and Philip shall receive his crown matrimonial at that time. There are no objections to their union; all women must marry, of course - Royal women above all. There must be sons to continue the line of the House of Tudor. Despite more than ten years of rule by a woman, alas, it occurs to no one at all that a daughter could do equally well.

Anne is surrounded by her women, who are busily engaged in securing stays, setting her kirtle ready to place over her head, brushing the nap of her velvet overgown and gathering together the accoutrements to arrange her hair before enclosing it in a coif and setting a hood decorated with gold and pearls atop it. The overgown is a sober dark blue, set with seed pearls in intricate patterns across the bodice, while the kirtle is an ivory-gold hue. Elizabeth's gown is far grander, of course - for it would not do for a mother to outshine the bride.

In spite of all that she has faced, and overcome, to reach this point, she wishes that she could hold onto Elizabeth's childhood just that little longer. She is old enough to be a royal bride - to delay any longer would be considered strange by other Courts - but nonetheless the tender age of both bride and groom seems inappropriate to a woman who did not wed until her thirty-second year. Or is it that, from this night, she shall no longer be under the care of her mother, but instead shall be a wife?

She closes her eyes, and swallows hard. It is not as though Elizabeth shall die this night; far from it - but the risks that lie ahead for her now are fearsome. No woman, no matter how elevated, is protected from death in childbed; her own Grandmother succumbed to childbed fever, after all. There must be children, of course: heirs to continue the line. If there are not, then who shall claim England once Elizabeth is gone? But nonetheless, that fear that her daughter shall be sacrificed upon the altar of that royal obligation to procreate…

"Majesty, are you well?" Jane's voice interrupts her reverie, "Shall I fetch you a glass of _eau de vie_?"

"No Jane, but I thank you for your consideration. I am quite well." She lies.

Convention demands that she must await her child in the Abbey, for she shall be escorted by her Uncle, who shall stand in the stead of her father to give her to her husband. In two hours' time, she shall depart for Westminster, from whence she shall be conveyed upon a litter at the head of the Queen's Council, to take her place in the church. Only the Officers of State, and a large squadron of the Queen's guards, shall follow as George escorts Elizabeth to her wedding.

_Would you have been proud of this moment, my Husband?_ She thinks to herself. In spite of his initial disappointment that Elizabeth had not been the son he longed for, he had doted on his second daughter. But he had once also doted upon Mary - until, suddenly, he had not. Would he have done the same to Elizabeth? That he was intent upon the Seymour girl was an indication of his intentions; he divorced Katherine to make way for his second wife - and she was not blind to the speculation that he would divorce his second wife to make way for a third.

The thought gives her cause to shudder; how would she have fared had Henry cast her aside? Then she forces herself to set it aside: what worth is there in speculating over a past that did not occur? Henry died, she lived. Elizabeth rules, and now she shall marry a young man who has shown no sign of the instability or capriciousness of her late husband. Please, God - _please_ \- do not let young Philip prove to be another Henry.

"There, Majesty; all is done." Margery dabs a little scent upon Anne's wrists, bringing her back to the present, "Her Majesty's councillors who are to accompany you to the Abbey are outside, and awaiting your presence."

She smiles, "Thank you, Madge. Shall we depart?"

* * *

Wiltshire looks upon his niece with delighted eyes as she emerges from her private apartments in the gown that she shall wear to marry the young man that has so captured her heart. Her overgown, a rich russet red brocaded with gold silk threads, sits atop a virginal white kirtle embroidered with entwined daisies for purity, honeysuckle for bonds of love and ivy for faithfulness, while her hood is formed of a magnificent filigree of gold, set with garnets and topazes to match the auburn of the overgown, and the hair that her hood conceals.

With the rest of the officers of state he bows deeply, "Your Majesty."

"Uncle." She smiles and extends her hand as he crooks his arm for her to take it, "Is all prepared?"

"Yes Majesty. Even the sun is delighted for you, for he has driven away even the vaguest hint of a cloud that might shadow your beauty."

She laughs, delightedly, "Even were you not a good councillor, Uncle, I should delight in your presence for your flattery alone."

"I live to please your Majesty." He answers, with blatantly false obsequiousness, his smile widening at her grimace.

She pauses to greet her various officials, before stopping in front of Cromwell, who has been obliged to seek out a second stick to support himself as he accompanies his Queen to the Abbey, "My Lord - would you prefer to ride, or perhaps some other means of travel that is more comfortable for you?"

He bows again, rather awkwardly, "I thank you for your consideration, Majesty; but I am content to walk. It would not do to draw stares from the gathered crowd by being obliged to travel in a litter."

"Then I shall have my men walk slowly." She smiles, "For my people shall want to see my gown, shall they not?"

"As much as they shall want to see you."

"I shall stand with him, Majesty." Rich advises, "Should he fall, I shall ensure that he falls behind me, and then none shall notice." He rests his hands upon his hips, the wide sleeves of his doublet and the folds of his simarre widening his frame quite considerably.

Elizabeth smiles at his joke, "Though I should rather my Lord Chancellor did not fall. Come Gentlemen, it is time for your Queen to commence her first duty to her Kingdom - which she cannot do if she has no husband. Let us correct that oversight."

To those around her, she shows no sign of nerves, and she steps forth with calm, measured steps that are more out of courtesy to her arthritic Lord Chancellor than a sign of reluctance.

All fall in behind her, and follow her to the great gateway that is reserved for those who are royal, where a grand honour guard, in scarlet, await her to lead her to her wedding behind a forest of pikes. Four young men of the household are carrying her canopy of estate, while a gaily decorated litter awaits her, borne by four strong men of the Guard, equally dressed in their ceremonial red. While she wishes to be seen, it does not do for a bride to walk to her wedding.

The procession emerges from the gates of the Palace, where yet more guards stand, ensuring that the gathered crowds do not surge forward and mob their Queen, for she is greatly loved, and known to accept approaches from her subjects. As it is, the cheers are loud and excited, "God bless your Majesty!", "Lord save King Harry's bairn!"

Walking behind, Rich leans close to his colleague, "One day, perhaps they shall cease to speak of her as Henry's child - perhaps when she is in her dotage."

Cromwell smiles, then grimaces slightly as his knees begin to join his hips in an ongoing chorus of painful disapproval. For all his discomfort, however, he would not wish to miss his Queen's marriage to a young man who seems so decent and right for her. And for England. Gritting his teeth somewhat, he limps on. There shall be a seat awaiting him in the Abbey Quire, where those of greatest importance shall be present. Those outside in the Nave, however, shall be less fortunate, as they shall be obliged to stand.

Walking alongside the litter, Wiltshire smiles at the cheers for his niece; she is radiant, the sun crowning her bejewelled hood with sparkling lights that seem almost like a saintly halo, and her face is alight with her smile as she waves to the people who shout their blessings to her. For all its weakness, the fleet that came against England was repulsed, and her people saved from the scourge of conflict - and they credit her with that victory, for she dispatched good commanders to defend her realm, while her betrothed went forth to join her commanders, and declared himself to be an Englishman. It is thanks to that declaration that he stands within the Abbey today to marry her, and no man objects.

The procession halts at the great west door of the Abbey, where Cranmer is awaiting his Queen. The Councillors who escorted her make their way into the great Church, where they shall join the rest of the celebrants. Only Wiltshire remains, to escort her to her husband-to-be, "Are you ready, Majesty?"

"I think so, Uncle. I am glad that my duty for England shall be easier than it might have been for other Queens before me. We women are fortunate when the one that we are to wed is one to whom we wish to be wedded."

"Nay, Majesty. I think he is fortunate to be wedded to you. As I am fortunate to be wedded to your aunt. She is a good woman, and I am most glad that she is my wife. I truly hope that Philip shall make you happy, as my dear Jane has made me."

"As do I." She smiles back.

Her hand resting upon Wiltshire's arm, she mounts the two, shallow steps to enter, "Welcome, your Majesty." Cranmer smiles at her, "All is prepared, and a fine young man awaits you."

Anne is seated in a magnificently upholstered chair to the north side of the gloriously decorated presbytery, with reciprocal chairs for her brother and sister, along with her sister in law. The men of her council shall be seated in the great choir stalls, her Lord Chancellor in one of the most highly decorated seats. And there he is, moving slowly and awkwardly with the two sticks to support his complaining legs. God above, he looks old these days - carrying his years upon his shoulders as gracefully as he can when his shoulders seem unwilling to bear the burden. Stiffly, he attempts to manoeuvre himself to sit, though his sticks are hampering him in the confined space of the choir stalls, so Rich steps forward again to assist him, as they shall be seated together. From her vantage point, Anne smiles to herself; such consideration from a man who would once have stood aside and done nothing. They once tolerated one another - but now they are great friends, and a formidable political bastion against whom none have been able to stand.

Her contemplations are interrupted by the brazen rasp of trumpets as her daughter enters the Abbey. All of the celebrants around her straighten up in anticipation, though she must traverse the length of the nave, and pass through the great pulpitum before they shall see her. A chorus of men and boys are atop that pulpitum, a soaring motet accompanying that unseen journey, while ahead, in front of the high altar, Philip stands with a cadre of his gentlemen, and awaits his bride.

The first indication of progress is the arrival of Cranmer, who makes his way along the Quire, steps up onto the presbytery and crosses the riotously colourful pavement, laid at the behest of the third Henry three hundred years ago, to stand before the high altar, his back to great space beyond where long-dead Kings and Queens of England are buried. His smile is joyful; and, if he would be brave enough to admit it - which he is probably not - a little proud at the thought of marrying England's first Queen Regnant.

"I would ask you all to stand." He advises. There is no need to explain why.

Elizabeth is radiant, her eyes shining with happiness as she approaches the presbytery. Mounting the steps, she approaches the Archbishop, and the young man to whom she shall shortly be married. With no members of Philip's family present, Excellency Damião represents King John, and his pleasure could not be more evident. He is proud of his young Prince, and regards the Queen with equal affection, smiling across at Anne, who smiles back. England might well be already benefiting from the trade agreements set out in the treaty with Portugal, but this is the final act of that grand event, and it shall - God willing - secure the future of the Tudor name for generations to come.

As promised, Cranmer has split the celebration of marriage into both English, and Latin. The exchanging of marriage vows, however, shall be in English - that was agreed at the outset.

From his vantage point in the Choir stalls, Cromwell watches the ceremony with a smile that is tinged with sadness. Perhaps his own daughters might have made grand marriages once his star began to rise at Henry's court. Would he have stood where Wiltshire stands now, giving Grace or Anne to their husbands? In all of his life, he has few regrets - after all, what time is there for regrets - but that painful grief has never truly left him. Both of his girls were lively, intelligent and vibrant - taking after their mother as much as he - and they always loved to tease him when the family supped of an evening.

If he cannot watch them marry, then he shall be content to watch this young woman in their stead.

Cranmer's homily is upon a passage from Paul's letter to the Ephesians: _with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace._ With the treaty based solely upon trade, and the maintenance of peaceful relations between nations, an equal unity between the Queen and her husband is to be lauded. He does not refer to the requirement of a wife to obey her husband, as that is most certainly not suitable for a reigning Queen, but instead speaks of a union of equals - quite an innovation in a world where a wife belongs to her husband, and is obliged to obey him in all things. While there is certainly plenty of precedent, the examples they wish to follow have ever reigned in Catholic realms - not England. Perhaps, then, Philip shall view such a thing more easily than the men of England.

The rings that the couple exchange are bands of the finest Welsh gold retrieved from the streams of the river Cothi, encrusted with tiny diamonds and sapphires; a gift from the Company of Mercers, the richest of the City guilds. Elizabeth's voice is clear and firm as she speaks her vows to her husband, reflecting the firmness of his voice as he made his equal commitment to her.

At last, Cranmer announces that _what God has joined, let no man put asunder_ , and all is done. From her seat, Anne struggles between joy and anguish; joy that her daughter has found a husband with whom she can be happy, but anguish that she is now a wife. Elizabeth is her own woman now, and the time is coming when she shall be required to stand aside to allow her daughter to rule England entirely in her own right.

Once, she asked Mr Cromwell to stop her from refusing to relinquish the power of rule for fear that she might become to intent upon it for herself. Now, however, she knows that she will be able to do it; she, and her council, have taught Elizabeth all that she needs to know to rule her Kingdom. With a husband at her side to share that burden, all is set fair for the realm. Once the celebrations for the marriage are done, there shall be another celebration - a celebration as England's Regent steps aside and her daughter comes into her true inheritance.

"Anne?" Wiltshire turns to her at the sound of a faint sob, then fumbles for a kerchief to give her, "There now, sister; you have done well - Elizabeth is married, and England is in safe hands."

"I am happy for her, George," Anne hiccups, slightly, "Believe me when I say so; but nonetheless it is hard to give her to her husband, for she is my child. Even now, she is my child."

"That shall not change, Sister." Mary is beside her now, "Come. It is time to depart - there is a feast to enjoy, and then dancing; we shall remain alongside her Majesty as her family and celebrate her happiness."

"Forgive me. I am being a fool." Anne smiles a rather wan smile at her sister, and rises to follow her from the Quire.

* * *

"Majesty. I have news of your cousin." Mendoza approaches the Emperor and bows.

"God have mercy, not her again. What is her desire _now_?" Charles is not pleased, "I thought myself free from the damned woman's importuning."

"I think, Majesty, that you are." The Councillor advises, "It appears that she has entered a convent of Carmelite sisters in Cadiz, and shall shortly commence her noviciate. All of her servants have abandoned her, I am told - her chief woman presented herself to a Swedish merchant and sought passage to Gothenburg, a request that he granted out of sympathy to a fellow Swede in need of aid, though most of the servants she took with her are either fled - or dead."

"Thanks be to God." Charles snaps, crossly, "It has taken me months to smooth over our relations with England in the midst of their growing wealth; for all the gold that my treasure ships bring me, it flows into my coffers, but stays there not a minute before it flows out again. It is clear from the failure of her ridiculous invasion that England's wealth has paid for the means to defend her shores from invasion, and thus I should prefer to regard her as an ally than a foe. I have enough fronts to fight as it is."

Mendoza nods, sagely; he is hardly unaware of Spain's precarious financial state.

"That said, I am told that her son has changed his mind over the banishment of her from his Kingdom, and seeks to invite her back again. I have received correspondence upon the matter from one of his diplomats, though I did not wish to answer it until the matter had been discussed in Council."

"She has immured herself within a convent, Mendoza." The Emperor shrugs, indifferently, "Let her remain there. Advise the Swedes that she has withdrawn from the world and thus cannot be brought back into it. I have no intention of permitting her to cause mischief again. Even should she choose to do so from Stockholm. Thus she shall end her days amongst religious sisters, and her fantasies over England shall cease."

"Yes, Majesty." Bowing, Mendoza withdraws.

* * *

Rodrigo Estopiña is a hard working man, albeit one that is burdened with one of the less pleasant tasks set upon men by the city of Jerez de la Frontera: disposing of the filth, refuse and detritus that inevitably builds up in a city of such size. His crew are equally hard working, sweeping sewage into the drains that run along the centres of the roads, gathering all manner of abandoned possessions that have been flung from doorways to be removed by whatever means the householder assumes shall come by. Or, as today, removing the corpses of beggars who have died in the night, for the weather has been brutal this year, and the usual rains have been supplemented by a remarkable degree of snow and ice - delightful for children, perhaps, but not for those who must remove the remains of men who have frozen to death overnight.

Estopiña has worked these streets for decades, and the many beggars that rich folk pretend not to see are well known to him. Those who know the city well can find shelter easily enough, for the Brothers of the religious houses take them in; but those who do not would have no knowledge of which doors to approach, so it is always the unfamiliar faces that they find huddled in doorways, or laid out under carts.

He rounds a corner near the Cathedral of the Holy Saviour to find another one, slumped in an alcove with the thinnest of felt blankets clutched about his shoulders. Badly worn boots, scuffed and with their soles almost through, the remains of what must once have been rather fine garments, the nap grazed down to the field. Estopiña is intrigued - someone has truly fallen from grace.

Turning, he hollers to his crew, who wheel a heavy cart alongside. There are already three bodies upon it, destined for a paupers' grave in one of the lesser churchyards of the city, where they shall lie unmarked and unremembered. Not the fate that he would wish for himself, of course; but God shall know who they are, even if men do not.

In the summer months, the hottest summers in all of Spain, he does not touch corpses - not even with gauntlets - but pulls the bloated, flyblown remains upon the cart with hooks. Not so now, however, for the man is all but solid. Unlikely to have money, of course, but always worth searching: he found a diamond bracelet in a thief's pocket, once. Fumbling amidst the corpse's clothes, his gauntleted hand strikes something harder than fabric, and he carefully eases out a chain, upon which is a shield enamelled with a colourful set of arms in red, gold and blue. God above, this man was of some means, then - but clearly of little skill to find work - or a willingness to part with a possession that might even have saved him. No wonder he has starved; if he was indeed an aristocrat, then the chances of his being able to perform an honest day's work would be less than little.

Estopiña has a very low opinion of the usefulness of aristocrats.

Shrugging to himself - the man has no need of this bauble, after all - he wrenches the chain free. Gold, by the look of it, as is the shield upon which the enamel has been baked. It shall fetch a pretty price, then; though he does not take too long to examine it - better to conceal it now before the others can see it: he has a low opinion of sharing profits, too.

"Another one." He says, rising from the silent corpse, "Send word to Father Anselmo that there shall be four today."

He shows little interest as two of his men lug the frozen body from its useless shelter, and fling it upon the cart to join the other three. By tonight, they shall be in an unmarked grave, while he shall be counting the profit from the gold chain that is now his. Pleased with his discovery, the Refuse-man leads his team off in search of the churchyard.


	57. Warden of the North

PART 7

**DOWAGER**

* * *

Chapter 57

_Warden of the North_

**Early March, 1555**

The sunlight that comes in through the leaded window is rather warmer than it should be, after the brutal winter that has just passed. The snows, however, have thawed, and spring seems quite determined that it should arrive as early as is possible, as though in apology for the icy cruelties with which the year began.

Those generous beams of warmth settle over a pair of wrinkled, mottled hands, whose knuckles are painfully arthritic these days. For all his infirmities, his rheumy, bespectacled eyes and a white beard that looks most strange upon a man who never wore one in his earlier years, Lord Cromwell's mind is as sharp as it has ever been, and the young clerk that is now obliged to act as his amanuensis frequently struggles to keep up with his dictations when his thoughts are in full flow.

Now, however, he is resting, his eyes closed and his breathing deep. His dreams are of days long gone, when he served an equally long-gone King, secure only in the knowledge that - sooner or later - he would probably end his life upon a scaffold, or banished to an obscure corner of England. All whom Henry trusted seemed to meet that fate in the end.

A hand rests gently upon his velvet-clad forearm, and he wakes with a slight grunt to see that his Steward is standing over him, "My lord, pardon my intrusion - his Grace of Northumberland is without and desires an audience."

For a moment, Cromwell must think carefully as to who is meant by the title; for, while Sir Thomas Percy has received the newly created Earldom of Cumberland - for there is a Duke of Northumberland now - Warwick having been granted it when he was confirmed as the Chancellor of the Council of the North. He is rarely at Court these days, instead managing the Queen's affairs from a great house granted to him just outside York. His family seat at Dudley is far too far south to manage in a day's ride, no matter how well maintained the road.

Shifting in his seat, he nods, "Call him in, John. I shall receive him here. Bring us some sack when he is seated."

"Yes, my Lord." The young man bows and turns to usher in the Duke, and Cromwell's smile is one of genuine pleasure, for they have not seen one another for some months.

"Forgive me if I do not bow, your Grace." He sighs, as his tall colleague approaches, "I should be obliged to rise from this damned chair, and that shall take ten minutes at the quickest."

"Nay, my Lord, it is I who should bow to you." Northumberland laughs, "It was your recommendation that brought me to my current noble state, and for that I am right grateful." He seats himself in the chair that John has fetched, and accepts a cup of sack with a cheery smile of thanks, "Our young King has made many friends in the North, and I bring excellent tidings of the doings of his Council."

Cromwell nods, pleased. Elizabeth's gamble of appointing her young husband Warden of the North, thereby giving him at least part of a Kingdom to rule, has smoothed over a fair number of feathers that might otherwise have become considerably ruffled. For all his love of her - which is beyond doubt - he remains a man, and thus is hard put to accept that he cannot command his wife. Add the volatility of her temper to that mixture, and he is surprised that the number of explosive detonations have been so few in the five years since they were wed.

"Have there been any new arguments, old friend?" Northumberland asks, only half seriously. All at Court have witnessed at least one of those occasions when Elizabeth and her husband have argued, but neither can be angry with the other for long, and such contretemps are soon set aside again. For all their imperious natures, the years of friendship they shared prior to their marriage have formed the bedrock upon which their vows were built, and no storms have yet been able to disturb those deep foundations.

"Not recently, John." Cromwell smiles back, "And we are right glad of it, for all of us, at one time or another, seem to have found ourselves attempting to counsel one or other of the pair. That said, even when they are truly angry at one another, it does not occur to them that they could be anything other than what they are - man and wife - and all is soon mended. I think that, in their love for one another, they possess the power to wound one another most deeply, but equally to mend those wounds, for that bond between them is the salve that heals them."

And then Northumberland asks 'the' question, "Is there any sign of a child yet?"

Cromwell's smile slips, "At this time, no." He admits, "Her Majesty's ladies have sought the advice of the midwives, who assure them that her Majesty is more than capable of bearing a child, while his Majesty visits her frequently; but still we wait."

"That must be hard for her. Nature can be a cruel mistress when all desire an heir to a throne, and She does not wish to provide one."

"Her Majesty the Queen Dowager has decreed - discreetly - that none shall query the matter in her Majesty's hearing. She has stated - and I agree with her most wholeheartedly - that expectations do not aid a woman in such matters. God willing, she shall conceive in her own time."

"And what of you, Thomas?"

"I do not see myself bearing a child at any point, John."

"Always one to jest." Northumberland smiles at him, "I am not blind - there are some at Court who would wish to see you gone. My eldest boy Warwick has overheard at least one group of courtiers speculating that it is time you were dispatched back to your estates and left the rule of England to those young enough to do it."

Cromwell does not look surprised at the news, "I am also aware of that, John. Well aware of it. Her Majesty, however, has shown great distress at any time that I have suggested that I might retire. I have no wish to - I think the lack of work would kill me more than any other cause - and she has no wish for me to go. Until she dismisses me, I shall remain at her side." His expression darkens then, "We must do so: I must, my Lord Rich must, my Lord Wiltshire must - for we are all that are left of her Majesty's first Council, and those who sit at the Council table now are younger, and more bellicose than we could ever have been. They have not seen war, and are keen to test their martial strength. It is hard to rein them in at times."

"Her Majesty's father would have appreciated such men. He was ever keen to go to war from all accounts."

"Indeed he was - and we were as hard put to stop him then as we are to stop the Council now. In the face of the lack of a _casus belli_ , they seek instead to create one or see one where there is none, and wage glorious war to earn honours for themselves."

"Then we are fortunate that the Council of the North is well stocked with wise heads who think as you do. England has prospered from a long time of peace, and we should be mad to throw away that prosperity to allow a few young men the foolish belief that war is a grand enterprise."

"I have fought in wars. They are most certainly nothing of the kind. They have read too many chivalric romances."

"In which case, I blame their mothers." Northumberland smiles, and Cromwell chuckles, softly.

"Forgive me, John; I fear it is my age."

"Nay. I fear it is your wisdom." Northumberland grins back at him, "Come - the council meeting is near upon us. If it shall take you as long to rise from that chair as you claim, perhaps we should begin the procedure now."

* * *

Anna Conti carefully eases the last of the rings onto her Queen's fingers, "There Majesty. All that remains is your scent."

Elizabeth stands still as Jane Radcliffe carefully dabs a newly mixed perfume ( _Eight grains of musk in eight spoonfuls of rosewater, three spoonfuls of damask water and a quarter ounce of sugar_ ) upon her wrists, while her beloved Kat watches from a comfortable chair, ready to give her approval to the work of the Queen's ladies.

Her days of wearing the confining French hood are at an end, and her hair is now elaborately styled beneath a bejewelled hair-net while a diamond encrusted diadem crests her forehead. It is the most marked symbol of her lineage, and she is as keen to show it to the world as she is to decorate her long, shapely fingers with only the simplest of jewels, so as not to disrupt the shape of her hands.

Her overgown today is a rich emerald green trimmed at the sleeves with genet fur, while her kirtle is a thickly embroidered ivory silk. Turning this way and that, she carefully examines herself in a long mirror of polished steel, and Kat nods, "It is well done, Ladies. Your Majesty is magnificent."

"When am I not, Kat?" She smiles at the woman who has educated her, and loved her as an elder sister for as long as she can remember, "I am the scion of the house of Tudor."

Escorted by her ladies, she removes to the grand presence chamber, redecorated recently as the palace of Placentia has begun to rather show its age, along with a worrying degree of dilapidation. There, at the announcement _My Lords! Her Majesty the Queen!,_ her Courtiers bow deeply as she enters, and she seats herself under her canopy of estate to await the arrival of her husband.

Only one man is permitted to sit in her presence, at her personal decree, and she smiles at the tired old Baron of Oakham as he bows his head to her. God, she shall miss him when his day is done - but while he lives, he remains the most trusted of her councillors, and as long as there is service in him, she shall retain him to serve.

"Your Majesty! My Lords! His Majesty the King!"

It is, in some ways, a courtesy to refer to him as such, for he is not a King regnant, but instead a King consort; but Elizabeth's love for him has prompted her to ensure that that lesser status is not made too brutally clear, and none raise eyebrows at the reference to him in such terms. They have learned not to.

Philip, Duke of Wessex, has added a few inches to his height in the last few years, and now sports a rather smart little beard upon his chin. The gentlemen to his rear are almost exclusively Englishmen these days, but all of them are friends and appointed on the grounds that they are sensible, intelligent and - largely - well behaved. He has got into the habit of pausing to accept the bows of his wife's councillors on such occasions, but seems also to have developed an equal habit of offering a small bow back to the three most prominent of the men who advise his Queen, particularly to the elderly Baron, for whom he has a great respect.

Then he turns and bows to his wife, "Your Majesty."

There is no disguising the smile upon her face, "Your Majesty." She stretches out her hand - not for him to kiss, but instead for him to take, and rises to her feet to stand beside him, before they retreat to their chairs - his to her left, for she is the Queen.

"Your Majesties, My Lords! Her Majesty the Queen Dowager!"

It is strange to hear herself referred to in such terms, even after three years. The last time the term 'dowager' was used in royal circles, it referred to a banished woman who had once been a Queen, and she prefers not to think of such things. The distance of time has tempered her view of the unfortunate Katherine; a woman she once hated and almost feared in that long period when she thought there would be no marriage between herself and the King. Long dead, of course - and perhaps happier now that she is seated amongst the saints she once so revered.

From her vantage point at the entrance to the chamber, she can see that her daughter is still holding her husband's hand. God, she was once like that, hand in hand with her King as they sat to greet new ambassadors, or receive Courtiers, or - as today - to grant honours. With Lady Day approaching, the year is almost at an end, and Elizabeth likes to grant honours at the end of the year. Henry was less likely to do so - but then his granting of honours tended to be altogether more arbitrary.

As Philip did before her, she pauses to accept the obeisance of the Councillors, before approaching the dais and curtseying deeply to her daughter and son-in-law, "Majesties."

"Mama." Elizabeth acknowledges, happily, "Come, be seated." There is, as always, a fine chair to the right of the Canopy.

Most of the honours to be granted today are knighthoods to worthy young men; but one or two higher honours are also to be given, at least one of which is likely to annoy the younger members of the council.

Anne is not blind to that shift of sensibilities at the council table. The great men that gave her the support and advice that she needed in those early days of her regency have mostly gone - for they were of a significant age when they were at Henry's side. Those who are present now have not known a world where the King was ruinously in debt, thanks to the costs of his wars as much as his desire to look every inch a great Prince of Christendom. As he did, they consider war to be the highest pinnacle of lordly pursuits, and those who do not are slipping into the minority. It is only their superior status that enables them to hold sway in front of the Queen, for she respects their judgement from long experience.

Most of them are young men who shall not serve as Councillors, but nonetheless take it upon themselves to attend Court as often as they may in hopes of being of use; but they are grateful for the recognition, and accept their knighthoods with courtesy and fulsome promises that they shall give their all in service to their Queen. Chief amongst the youths, however, is the son of the Earl of Northumberland, recently returned from his studies in the great university cities. Given the promise he showed before his departure, Elizabeth is pleased to welcome him back to the Court, particularly now that her marriage has ended his father's rather embarrassing hopes that she would wed the younger Percy. Today he shall receive a knighthood - but also a Barony, the first Baron Percy of Alnwick, after his family's seat.

As she watches, Anne smiles to herself at the sight of her daughter resting that ceremonial sword either side of the boy's head. Then she sees his face, and the smile freezes somewhat; this is not the well governed, courteous young man who had been so embarrassed by his father's forward behaviour. At some point in his time away, he seems almost to have grasped that same character, and his expression is now one of a man who considers himself to have received no less than his due. As the pride has seeped out of the father, it has seeped into his son.

If Elizabeth has noticed it, she gives no sign, but instead steps back and permits the newly ennobled Thomas Percy to rise and bow to her. There are two more honours to grant yet, and Anne finds her eyes still upon the boy as the Lord Rich is called forth to be granted the Earldom of Richmond. Yes - there it is: a small curl of the lip. Scorn for the older man who has served diligently for so many years, and should perhaps now step back to make way for younger blood. That shall bear watching.

While he is now stepping towards the threshold of his three score years though not the additional ten, Rich remains rather more able to move than his elder colleague. His bow is smooth and courteous, and he promises to dedicate his remaining years to the Queen's service as her Lord High Treasurer, a comment that draws more mildly scornful glares from those who have yet to offer any service of note. Anne dreads to imagine how they shall react when the final honour is granted.

Elizabeth smiles as he steps back and rejoins his fellow Councillors, only to find himself pressed into service again as Cromwell is called, as he is still seated, and rising remains something of an awkward business with two sticks required to assist the process.

Between them, Wiltshire and the new Earl of Richmond carefully assist the Lord Chancellor to his feet, and walk either side of him as he makes his slow, painful way to stand before his Queen. From her chair, Anne's eyes begin to dampen at the sight of him - so old now. So tired and doddering, and yet as acute and intelligent as he has always been. He should depart from the court to see out the last of his days in comfort and leisure; but she knows full well that to do so would surely be the death of him, for he has never been content to be idle.

"Our dear Baron Cromwell," Elizabeth smiles as he stands before her, as he cannot kneel any longer, "in all of our days as Queen, you have served us well, with diligence, honesty and frankness. As you promised our noble mother in her Regency, so you promised us, and you have kept that promise. In gratitude for your years of service, we hereby grant you the Earldom of Essex, with all privileges and rights pertaining to that rank. If we are grateful for your presence in our Court, then that is as nothing compared to the gratitude of England, who has - as we have - benefited from your counsel and guidance in times of peace and war. Thus I give you this," She carefully removes a large ring from her finger, which is obviously too large for her, "as a sign of our gratitude to you, and our hopes that you shall be at our side for as long as God grants."

Anne's eye is caught by the younger Courtiers again, who are muttering between themselves. Once, it amused her to see such things, for their ire was solely inspired by envy; but now there is scorn again, for they see only the infirmities of the body, and not the intelligence of the mind. Even obliged to stand half-bent, supported by two sticks and aided by Wiltshire and Richmond, he could out-think them without difficulty. For a moment, she is angry, and almost tempted to stand and demand that they make account for it; but she cannot. She is no longer the Regent; that moment ended when the Imperial crown was placed upon Elizabeth's head a second time to seal the commencement of her true reign. It is for Elizabeth to speak out now - and she knows better than to spoil the Lord Chancellor's reward in such fashion. He has dealt with the scorn of others for the entirety of his life at Court - why should now be any different?

"Your Majesty; I thank you with the deepest of gratitude for your reward - placed upon a man of such low birth as I." Cromwell answers, "I swear to you that I shall continue to serve for as long as God permits me - be it ten days, ten months, or ten years." He bows, awkwardly, and then - again with the assistance of Wiltshire and Richmond, steps back and returns to his seat.

As the Courtiers strike up conversations, and mingle amongst themselves, Anne turns to her daughter to mention her observations, only to find that she is not alone.

"They seemed most displeased at the honours for Lords Rich and Cromwell, my beloved." Philip has noticed it, too. Anne's grasp of Portuguese is quite fair now - but those around the couple know nothing of it, and thus they can converse privately.

"That has always been so, Filipe," Elizabeth admits, "When I was a child, they were jealous, for he was my father's most faithful servant, and my father knew it, even as they did not. Now he is ageing, and they wish for him to step aside in order to relinquish his political power. He has used it - mostly - for England's benefit; but I have no doubt that they are keen to use it for their own."

Philip smiles; no matter how discreet, the low-level embezzlement of the senior councillors is hardly a secret - it is, however, their primary source of remuneration for their work; and - as long as they are not _too_ greedy - it is tolerated by the Crown, "I think it should bear watching; it would be most harsh for them to conspire against him so late in his career. While his favour is not at risk - for he has earned it - there is no accounting for other acts that might be taken to remove him from the Council table."

"That is why I have ensured that all of his meals are tasted first." Elizabeth admits. Anne blinks, startled; she had no idea, "Do you think me wrong to have done so, Mama?" she notices her mother's surprise.

"No, not at all, Majesty - it had, I fear, not occurred to me that he was at risk of poison."

"I think it unlikely, Mama." Elizabeth explains, "But I am not ready to lose a head as wise as his - not until God decrees that it is time."

"Amen to that."

* * *

Philip sets down the report that Northumberland has prepared for him, "It is most well, your Grace. I am greatly pleased. Are her Majesty's subjects in the North content with their new governance?"

John Dudley smiles, "I think they are, Majesty. It has always been hard to govern the North, for they are a great distance from London and thus assume that none pay their difficulties any mind. It has fostered a sense of independence, but also a sense that they are free to do as they will without censure or prevention. The wealthy oppress the poor with impunity, secure in the knowledge that the Queen shall not know of it, while banditry is rife to a degree that is not seen further south."

"It cannot be that _all_ of the nobility are so, your Grace."

"Nay, Majesty - there are others of wealth who are keen to protect the rights of their tenants, and do so; but those who are keener upon their own benefit feel themselves to be safe from royal disapproval. Those who have not the means to bring their miseries to court thus labour under the burden and hope for better times in Eternity."

"That is unacceptable." Philip shakes his head, "Her Majesty has ever been keen upon the welfare of the poorest of her subjects. There are laws to protect them that appear toothless away from the scrutiny of her Majesty's judges. I am Warden of the North, and thus I wish to establish a proper means for grievances to be settled justly and fairly for all of England's subjects in the North, as is the case in the south thanks to the effort of the Inns of Court. I have spoken with her Majesty, and she is in agreement that I should travel North to do so."

Warwick nods, "If I might say so, Majesty, your attendance would be welcome in a fashion that would be less likely for Her Majesty. The north cleaves still to the Old ways, and your retention of your faith shall make them more willing to accept you."

"I imagine that my male state shall also be of use to me. I am well aware that my Queen is loved - for once she called them York's heart - but she remains female, and thus of lesser state in their eyes now that she is wedded."

The Duke eyes his King surreptitiously: no, there is no pride in that statement - he is saddened that his wife's status is lessened in the eyes of some subjects following her marriage. How strange that he should view what is, for him, a diminution of his status as a husband in such a fashion. It was a wise thing to grant him the responsibility that he has been given, for that has proved to be the compensation he has needed for that reduced state. Thanks be to God that he also loves her Majesty; that is likely to have been helpful, too. It is remarkable that he has been so amenable to his situation.

Oh - there have been arguments, of course. Tempestuous quarrels that some of the older Courtiers claim to be as startling as those that once occurred between the Dowager and her late husband; and not a few of the most trusted, senior Councillors have found themselves pressed into service to counsel one or other of the pair as they have vented their frustrations. For a woman with a temper as imperious as Elizabeth's, such arguments are inevitable - but the outcome of those arguments is always reconciliation, for they are very much in love, and it appears that each cannot be without the other.

Pleased, Northumberland gathers his papers, "I shall speak to the Lord Chancellor to discuss arrangements for your journey. It is certainly her Majesty's wish that her Subjects be granted access to fair justice regardless of their state - and, doubtless, yours too."

"It is, your Grace. Most assuredly."

"Then we shall see to it."

* * *

Anne smiles fondly as Cromwell squints over the chessboard, pausing to push his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. That small movement has become second nature to her Lord Chancellor: so much so that he seems not to notice when he does it anymore. For all his years, and the burdens that they have set upon him, his acute mind has been left untouched by the infirmities of age, and their games are as hard fought as they have always been. Their conversations are equally acute, and much of their discussion has centred upon the tribulations of her daughter as she has found her feet in a marriage that is quite contrary in its nature.

They are not alone - even now that she is no longer Queen, Anne is never alone - but Lady Wiltshire sits discreetly at the far end of the chamber and embroiders diligently. Even if she hears what they say, she shall speak of it to none.

"It is strange." She muses, almost to herself.

"Strange, Majesty?" Cromwell looks up at her.

"As I see Elizabeth's life with Philip, it raises memories of mine with the late King."

"In what way?"

She looks at him, smiling, "Is that not impertinent, my Lord?" she asks.

"Maybe; maybe not. I am an old man, and thus subject to occasional lapses in my behaviour." He answers, with that so-familiar blandness that always amused her.

Her smile falters somewhat, "I see Philip's love for Elizabeth; his pain and sadness when they have become estranged, and his determination to resolve the argument that has caused it - for it is equal to hers. I saw it not when Henry was angered - always he demanded that I be the one to give ground; to seek _his_ forgiveness even when I was not in the wrong. Then he would become indulgent and adoring - as he had been from the first day that he sought to woo me."

"He loved you, Majesty."

"Did he?"

Cromwell pauses, and blinks, "I…" he cannot answer her.

"Always his letters were full of almost gratuitous sentiment: he spoke of kissing me; of kissing _parts_ of me. His gifts were fulsome and rich. If I returned them - as I did at first - then he would answer me with ever more sentimental letters, and richer gifts. What was that to me? I was the daughter of a knight - an aristocrat. It was not for me to marry a King; that my rank was insufficient even for an Earl had been made abundantly clear to me. He wanted me as he had wanted my sister - a pretty thing to chase, to catch and to cast aside; but I would not have it. I knew the damage that had been done to my sister's reputation at Court by her liaison with the King and I wanted none of it; but he would not yield. Thus I demanded that he marry me, for I thought he could not do it, and there would be an end to it."

"But instead he moved heaven and earth to marry you." Cromwell finishes, quietly.

"I learned to love him, my Lord. Trained myself to fill my heart with him and give myself to him as a loyal wife should; but in what way was I ever taught to be a Queen? In the years that have followed his death, I am not blind to my foolishness. I thought myself to be powerful - but I see now that what power I had was vested entirely in Henry's adoration of me. In thinking myself to be powerful, I treated all about me as lesser beings, and regarded them with disdain." She pauses, seeing the slight smile twitching at Cromwell's lips, "And I made powerful enemies in the process, did I not?"

"That was then, Majesty." He answers, still smiling, "We are not those people now. We have learned much about ourselves, and each other - and thus we have prospered, for we compromised."

"And now, Elizabeth is Queen."

Cromwell nods, "And I have won." He moves his bishop, "Checkmate."

They are gathering the pieces, one of her Stewards approaches, "Majesty, my Lord of Lincoln is without, and seeks an audience."

Seated where he is, Cromwell's eye is caught by the expression upon Anne's face at the news. In the last three years, the two have regularly kept one anothers' company; though always upon official business. Nonetheless, there is a small _frisson_ of pleasure that he is without; and the Chancellor smiles inwardly. She had once found love that was denied, and forced love for someone who demanded it from her. Now, however, she has found it again, and this time is free to give it - and he had never noticed. For all his acuity, he had not seen it; so long has love been absent from his life, that he can no longer see it in others. Ah well; even if his days of companionship are gone, at least it is not the same for his Queen.

The Steward remains to assist him as he rises from his seat, and he makes his slow, stick-tapping way to the door, where Lincoln is waiting. Nodding a greeting, he makes his way back to his office.

* * *

"Come, be seated, my Lord." Anne directs Lincoln to a seat beside the fire, "What news do you bring?"

"Little of immediate worth, Majesty." He admits, "Though we consider it to be worth watching."

"Oh?" Intrigued, Anne seats herself, allowing him to do the same, "Mere gossip, perchance?"

"Perhaps, or perhaps not; we are not sure." He admits, "As you know, I am one of those upon the Council who are neither new, nor old, hands. Thus I have been approached quietly by Sir Thomas Percy to seek my opinion upon the worth of our older Councillors."

She stiffens at once; stung by the suggestion that the wise men who guided her, and her daughter, to their current state might be threatened, "Percy?"

Lincoln shakes his head, "He is young, indiscreet. I think he is unaware of the loyalties of the Council; and is not accomplished at the formation of a faction. His father has accepted his place upon your Council and thus is no longer troublesome to her Majesty. The young man himself, on the other hand, is keen to ingratiate himself with other young bloods of the Court."

Anne nods, "I think I understand. They are, I believe, quite intent upon war with Spain - which would be utterly ruinous to the realm and serve no purpose other than to drench their swords with blood." She pauses, "Nay - not their swords; the swords of the men who follow them. It is ever the foot soldiers who give their lives while the grand lords watch and praise themselves for their prowess."

"Cynicism, Majesty?" Lincoln smiles. In the times that they have spoken in private, he has become used to the presence of Anne's most trusted companion, and is not concerned that the Dowager's sister in law is also in the room.

"I have learned it, I fear." Anne answers, reaching out to take his hand, "If that is all that you bring me, then perhaps there was no need to attend me."

He reddens somewhat, "An excuse, perhaps - but a valid one."

"I demand no excuses from you, William." She smiles more as he lifts her hand to his lips to kiss it, "I welcome your company."

"But my discretion is essential."

"I am sorry; you are as aware as any of the reputation that I acquired in my youth."

"Even though you are no longer that young woman?"

"Even then." She sighs, "I have given every moment of my life since the death of my husband to ensuring that my daughter is not harmed by any act of mine. I willingly blinded myself to the truth that my subjects despised me - and I was obliged to work extremely hard to overcome that loathing. Even now I think myself not entirely free of it. I wish, most heartily, that I could stand beside you and give you my heart for all to see - but if I do so, then it is my daughter that shall bear the scorn. I am still, to many, the King's whore."

His grasp upon her hand tightens, "In which case, I shall willingly accept what I am given. I have admired you for many years; and my regard has warmed to affection, I think. I shall not press you to grant me your hand, for I know that her Majesty's reputation is all, and I - as you - would give up my life before I harmed it."

Anne looks into his eyes with sad longing: Henry was not like this - he was _never_ like this. All that mattered to him was that she be his. The wishes of the people, of his Council; Jesu: even _her_ wishes, were immaterial. He wanted, and therefore he must have. Oh…oh to walk hand in hand with a man who looks upon her as a valued companion; not as a trophy, or a prized hind to be hunted and brought to bay, "Then I shall pray to God that he grant us the opportunity to be together in this life - for I, too, look upon you with affection. I would willingly be yours - but, if my daughter's reputation is endangered, I shall stand aside."

"If that is so, then I shall pray also, while I stand aside - and wait for better times."

They lapse into silence, captured by each others' eyes, while Lady Wiltshire's quiet tears drop onto her embroidery.

* * *

Elizabeth's gown tonight is a magnificent affair, that rich green overgown atop a new ivory-gold kirtle. Her jewels are gold, set with emeralds, and her hair is arranged with gold ornaments into an elaborate arrangement of waves atop her head. There is no grand Court occasion; just supper with her husband, but she has ever valued those times in his company, for convention demands that they all but live separate lives. As of yet, she has not felt confident to overturn that convention.

"That is most satisfactory, thank you Jane." She smiles at Jane Radcliffe, who has remained in her service in spite of many offers for her hand. As a wife, she could not remain in her Queen's household, and thus she has declined all who have wished to marry her. Turning, the Queen looks to Mistress Astley for her approval, and smiles at the old lady's nod, "You are, as always, the very image of Majesty."

Bending to kiss the cheek of her chief Gentlewoman, Elizabeth smiles at her, "Where would I be without you, Kat?"

"Wearing a blue gown and a red kirtle that clashed with your hair - of that I have no doubt!" she laughs. It is a jest - her Queen's tastes and style are always excellent.

The dishes that have been set out are a fraction of the grand displays of victuals that graced the private table of her father - though she never saw such feasts, of course - but nonetheless is suitable for a royal Couple: a haunch of the finest venison doused in a rich, red wine gravy, a roasted carp covered with toasted mushrooms to resemble the removed scales, small manchet loaves, butter-drenched artichokes and a herb sallet. Philip is already present, and bows floridly, "My lady."

She smiles at him, and curtseys deeply, "My lord."

"Are you well, my Queen? I apologise for my absence today, I have been in discussions with the Duke of Northumberland about how things progress in the North."

"Not at all, my beloved." She answers, accepting a kiss upon the cheek, "You are Warden of the North; I should expect it of you, for it is your responsibility as Duke of Wessex, and my King."

Their talk as they sit down to sup is of little things; small matters that are of interest only to them, and of no importance to the governance of the realm. It has been a hard task, attempting to strike a balance between them so that each is happy, but not at the expense of the other; but that equilibrium has been won, and Elizabeth is most grateful that her most trusted senior councilmen have been so patient with her in the midst of the arguments that have inevitably erupted between them in the years since their vows were made. Had they not been, then she is quite sure that she would not have the tidings that she intends to impart to her husband tonight.

"Are you quite well, Lizzie?" Philip is watching her, "You have eaten very little this evening; even for you."

"I am indeed well, Filipe - most well." She answers, "I fear my appetite is somewhat dulled, for I am rather sickened now and again during the day."

"Have you spoken to a physician? Shall I call Doctor Mays?"

"There is no need, my beloved." She reaches across to take his hand, "I am aware of the reason for my discomfort, and it is good news, _most_ good news."

His expression changes as he begins to realise what she is about to say, "Are you…?" he leaves the question hanging.

"Yes, my dearest husband. I am. Before this year is out, our first child shall be born."

"My God…you are with child?"

"I believe that is what I said, Filipe." She laughs, " And, God willing, our first child shall be a son to inherit England's crown, while I shall serve England by ensuring that the succession is maintained."

"More importantly, my dear wife, you shall be a mother."

"And you shall be a father."

He reaches across the table to take her hand, "And we shall be a family." Leaning forward, he ignores the toppling of his goblet, and the spilling of the wine across the floorboards below, and answers her joyful smile with a kiss.


	58. Bells Across England

Lady Wiltshire is smiling as she arranges Anne's hair, "I am so happy for you, Majesty."

"Enough of 'your Majesty', Jane." Anne answers, "I am no longer Queen - allow me to be your sister in law again, in private at least."

Elizabeth's decision to eschew the confines of a hood over her hair has sparked a new fashion across the court, with womens' tresses elaborately arranged and netted with sparkling arrangements of jewels and gold wire. Pretty, to be sure; but for those of the court who have been allowed to hide one of the telling marks of age it is less welcome, and Anne is no longer able to conceal the growing encroachment of grey into her flowing, dark locks. Moreover, the discovery that her beloved baby girl is now with child is a singular blow to that quiet pretence that she is still young, still vital…

"Anne?" Jane interrupts her reverie, "Are you well?"

She smiles, and reaches up to take her Lady's hand, "I am, dear Jane - my happiness for my beloved daughter is boundless. It is just…I have discovered that I am growing old, and it is a truly sobering discovery."

"We are none of us immune from age." Jane turns and leans against the enormous dressing table, her fingertips brushing at her cheek, "I, too, look at myself and wonder where my youth has gone."

"Look at us - wallowing in shallow self-pity when our Queen is fulfilling her first duty to her realm, and shall know the joy of holding a babe in her arms as we did." Anne does not speak of those who were less fortunate in the dangerous lottery that is child-bearing, "Come, we must be ready to share the joy of the Court as they are told the news."

They walk to the Hall arm in arm, while the rest of Anne's ladies follow behind. The days of her being obliged to show decorum becoming to a queen are past; that is her daughter's responsibility now. Deference is still shown to her of course, for she is the Queen's mother, and she is still announced to the Court as she has been from the first day that Henry granted her prominence; but there is another woman now that has prominence over her, and she would not have it any differently.

The Hall is, not surprisingly, filled with people. Even if the news has not been formally announced, the Court is hardly devoid of rumour, and thus the announcement shall not be a surprise, but instead shall merely confirm that which is already known - or guessed at. Her councillors are to the fore, of course, and she sighs inwardly at the sight of her Lord Chancellor, who is seated where all others stand. George stands beside him to the left, while Lord Richmond stands to his right - that remarkable political triumvirate still present, albeit arthritic, watery eyed and grey.

"My Lords!" a loud voice brings the quiet conversations to a sudden halt, "Her Majesty the Queen and his Majesty the King Consort!"

All bow as the doors from the great watching chamber behind the hall open to admit Elizabeth and Philip, walking with the formality that their status demands - but just that little bit closer together than they need. From her vantage point, Anne recalls the last time she made such an entrance at the side of her King. Henry had held her hand, just as Philip holds Elizabeth's - but the distance between them was sufficiently wide as to be an impassable gulf. God, he had not so much been angry with her as hated her…

Furious with herself for allowing a rogue recollection to intrude upon her thoughts, she shuts out the fleeting memory and instead smiles at her daughter - the sight of her happy progeny sufficient to restore her pleasure. Her hand still tightly clasping her husband's, she steps forth, "My Lords! I am right glad to see so many present to share our joy. As God joined us in marriage, so he has blessed us - and all of England. My physicians have confirmed my state, and I am delighted to share with you that I am with child. Before the year is out, England shall have her first heir."

Whether it is conventional for a Queen to give out the news of her pregnancy in person, no one is sure, for when has there been a Queen regnant before? It matters not one whit, however, for there are exclamations of delight here and there in the gathered throng, before the entire all pleasant break into delighted applause.

Moving slightly awkwardly, for he, too, is now becoming somewhat arthritic, Cranmer steps forth and bows deeply, "Your Majesties, allow me - on behalf of your Council - to offer our heartiest congratulations upon you for this great blessing from God. This magnificent news shall be imparted to your realm forthwith."

She smiles, delightedly, "Thank you, your Grace. I also decree that my subjects be granted two days of celebration in thanksgiving for God's blessing upon me, and that gifts of monies be granted to the poor parishes to pay for celebratory victuals to be given to those who are sick, aged or destitute."

Cranmer bows again, "It shall be done, Majesties."

As he withdraws, Elizabeth retires to her throne, still tightly clasping Philip's hand as he smiles upon her, and the gathering breaks up into small groups. There is no need for Anne to congratulate her daughter - she has done so fulsomely and in private, with many tears of joy. Instead, she crosses to where Lord Cromwell sits in his chair, and smiles at him as he attempts to rise, "Nay, my Lord. There is no need to pain yourself so upon my account - remain seated, I beg you."

He grunts slightly in pain, then looks up at her with a reciprocal smile, "I am grateful, Majesty; I fear that emerging from a chair is becoming ever more difficult for me. My Lords Wiltshire and Richmond are not so much political allies as stewards who lift me from chairs whenever I am obliged to depart from one."

She laughs as Richmond rests his hand upon Cromwell's shoulder and chuckles, "And our growing age makes such activity quite the spectacle." Still smiling, he fetches over a chair for her, before retreating, Wiltshire in tow, and leaving her to talk to her Chancellor.

"And so it is done, Mr Cromwell." She says, as she seats herself beside him, "We have held England, and Elizabeth rules as Queen."

"Indeed so, Majesty." He agrees, "Though I think there is still a need for us. Her Majesty is now with child, and that serves to grant hope to the realm of heirs to continue her line - but also risks."

"Speak not so, my Lord." Anne frets, "It is a danger that all women face, and I prefer not to think of it."

"Nay, Majesty, that is not my fear - though I pray upon it each morn in hopes that God shall grant us a healthy heir from a living Queen. Instead my concern is the young bloods of the Court, who shall expect her Majesty to be distracted by her condition, and thus form factions that might oust older, wiser heads."

She sighs, "They seek war."

Cromwell nods, "It is ever thus with young hot-heads. They look upon war as an art - a noble pursuit of chivalry and military glory. It is not a requirement upon them to pay for such enterprises, nor is it a requirement for them to appreciate the harm that is done upon those who are not blessed with wealth and titles."

"Men such as you once were." She finishes.

"I think we are more than a match for them, Majesty." He smiles, "Though it does not do to become complacent. I consider Elizabeth to be far wiser than most would think. Her distraction in her pregnancy shall be less profound than anticipated, and thus she shall remain in control of her Court until her confinement is upon her."

"Assuming that she shall reach that point." Anne sighs, "I did so but the once - and two other babes fled from my womb in a river of blood and disappointment."

"Whatever God determines, we shall accept. But I pray for a fair outcome."

"As do we all." Anne turns back to the dais, where Elizabeth continues to hold her husband's hand tightly, and share loving glances with him as the musicians begin to play, and the courtiers divide in order to dance a galliard. Enough dread - today her daughter carries the heir to her Crown in her womb, and all of England shall celebrate.

* * *

The carriage rattles its way along the Strand, four horses required to combat its weight. The box is suspended, rather than fixed to the axles: a new innovation, only recently introduced from France. It has replaced the simple pleasure of riding a horse for a man who is no longer fit to ride one. But for the chains that carry the box, the occupant within would be equally rattled to hell - but the lack of connection to wheel axles, and the relative smoothness of the paved road, ensure an altogether more comfortable ride.

Looking out through the viewing port, however, Cromwell is most discontented. Trapped within this damned box, he cannot hear the conversations of the people that he passes, nor can he see how many beggars are upon the streets. For all the claims that he cares nothing for the poor, he has ever done so - his observance of the streets of London being something of a barometer for the conditions in the shires.

The holiday that has been granted to celebrate the Queen's pregnancy has caused the Dowager Queen to insist that he depart from Court awhile, to return to his beloved house at Austin Friars, and the family that resides therein. In answer to that order, he dispatched a letter to Gregory, inviting him to visit with his wife and children, and that alone is his delight in departing from Court. He has never felt comfortable to be away from the operations of government.

While he cannot see as well as he once did, even without the restriction of the small viewpoint, he is not blind to the mood of those upon the streets. The expressions he sees upon the faces of those beyond are cheerful - delighted, even - as Londoners take in the news that their Queen shall present them with a prince. For it must be a prince. After Henry's failure to secure a male heir, the wish for his daughter to perform that duty is enlarged tenfold at least; and he is well aware that she knows it. For all her success as England's Queen, Elizabeth is still a woman - an aberration upon the throne. They are content to accept her, for she is the daughter of a King; but the Crown should be worn by a man, and the sooner she provides one to do so, the better. He is even - on occasion - obliged to admit to himself that he feels the same. It is far easier to look overseas for a spouse if they are hunting a hind, and not a stag. They were fortunate to find Philip - there is no certainty that they might find such fortune again.

His thoughts drift back to his son. He had planned upon a grand political career for Gregory - and he certainly did not lack the intelligence to embark upon one - but instead his son has become a wealthy landowner and merchant, with an abundance of tenants to manage, and a wide array of trade contacts to maintain. Happily married to the daughter of an equally wealthy Baron, the son has provided the children that his father lacked, and a gathering of the Cromwells nowadays is always quite the swarm of youngsters, some of them now nearly old enough to be considering marriages of their own.

In spite of himself, he cannot repress a smile of pleasure at the sight of the familiar gatehouse frontage. Awkwardly, painfully, he emerges from the carriage into the base court, aided by two of his stewards who ensure that his sticks are ready for him, before making his way into the part of the house that has always been his apartment. Once he has changed his clothes and refreshed himself, he shall make his way through to the long gallery, to sit in the sunlight and await his son's attendance.

_Hah! I have won again, Mr Cromwell. You seem so content to donate your wealth to me that I would be most remiss to deny you the opportunity!_

_Come now, Mr Rich. I shall win it back, of that I am certain. Here, pass the cards, I shall mix them and deal again. Then we shall see who the winner shall be._

His eyes drift away from that card table - where he regularly lost quite ludicrous sums of money. For all his skill at cards, others seemed often to have more; but it was of little consequence to a man of his wealth…

_Your falcons are looking most fine today, Mr Cromwell. You must be proud of them._

_For what they cost me, Excellency? I should think so! But I am indeed delighted in their fitness. How do you like your quarters?_

_They are excellent - I am very comfortable. Thank you for your kindness in hosting me._

How hard it is that wily old Eustace Chapuys is now dead. For all their diplomatic and political combat, he had always rather liked the man.

Setting down his sticks, he sinks into a chair and sighs, almost tearfully. So much in the past. So much gone. So much lost to him. He is resigned to the limitations of his mortality, and is not afraid to pass through that veil from life into death - for he trusts in God that he shall be welcomed to eternal rest and joy. It is grief for those long-lost days that wring drops from his eyes, days that flew by in a flurry of politicking, trading and hard work - and shall never come again. Not one of those hours was wasted; not a single one of them - even those times that he made for his children when he could, he never begrudged a moment of it. And yet, now…

_Was there more I could have done? Could I have saved the marriage had Henry not died? Would I have had to find the means to end it?_

He shakes his head. Of course he would. The marriage was beyond saving - the King's passionate adoration of his wife had soured into virulent hatred by then. He had demanded much from her, but her inability to grant his wishes - like the fairies of old might have done - turned him against her, and he blamed her for it all. Even that which was not her fault and could never be.

Not that it matters now, of course. Henry has been dead near-on twenty years, while he himself has reached his three-score years and ten - as best as he can reckon it. He has survived when others have not, seen a young girl grow to womanhood and claim her royal inheritance. Now - at last - there is a babe growing beneath her heart, and all of England celebrates.

He is well aware of the rumours that had began to spring up, as toadstools do after the first rains of autumn. A slender girl from birth, the doubts that she could bear children at all have tinged all discussions pertaining to the succession. Perhaps she was judged too young, and God has waited until now to secure her health and that of the babe she carries - for the Midwives had always been adamant that there would be children from her womb. It must, of course, be a prince. There is no other help for it - should she bear a daughter, then the rumours shall begin all over again - her mother's curse…her mother's sin - manifest in the failure to give England a son as the usurper had also failed. Does she know?

Of course she does. She must do - Elizabeth has one of the sharpest intellects he has ever seen, and she is hardly blind to the risks she faces if her child is a girl. Her youth is on her side, of course, for there shall be ample opportunity to bear another babe in time - but the need for a son is so great in the hearts of her subjects that the failure to bear one shall stand against her as it did her mother.

_No. Enough of this._ Cromwell shakes his head, grasps his sticks and forces himself out his chair with a cacophony of cracks and grunts of pain. As long as he is alive, he shall protect his Queen with all at his command - and that includes fervent prayers for a boy.

Turning, he calls for his manservant - it is nearly time for supper, and he has much to discuss with his son.

* * *

"My Lord of Lincoln." Anne smiles, "It is far too fine a day to remain within these walls, shall we discuss business in the privy garden?"

Smiling, Lincoln bows, and escorts her outside. Lady Wiltshire - as always - behind them. Determinedly on show for all to see, but carefully, wilfully deaf to the words of the Dowager and the Lord.

"How is her Majesty?" he asks, as they make their slow way along a path between beds surrounded by well tended box.

"Well, my Lord." She answers, "Though her sickness is tiresome - and she is hopeful that it shall pass as it does for most women when their babe reaches the third month, though I am told that she is beginning to crave liver paste most heartily, and the kitchens are hard put to secure sufficient stocks for her. I suspect I was more fortunate in that aspect, for I craved apples."

He smiles, "With my late wife, it was cherries. We were most fortunate that her craving came at a time when cherries were in season."

She knows of his previous marriage, and its tragic end when his wife died in childbed, swiftly followed by the babe. No wonder he was so keen to accept the appointment to lead England's Swedish embassy - with nothing but anguished memories to keep him in England. Both of them left behind by spouses that went ahead of them into death. He knows, as does she from her own lost babes, the dangerous path that Elizabeth must now tread.

"Has she appointed her midwives?" he continues.

"Madame Astley has assumed that task." Anne answers, smiling fondly, "As I am her mother, Madame Astley has transformed from a valued elder sister into a loved aunt. Even now, she questions women most closely, determined to ensure that they have the knowledge and skill to bring a babe safely into the world."

"And the physicians that shall attend?" he sounds more doubtful now, for some reason. Bemused, she turns to him, "Do you not trust physicians?"

His expression saddens, "After the birth of my son, the midwives were most concerned for her - but the physicians banished them from the room. Their distress was great, for they claimed to know what ailed my wife, but the physicians refused to hear them. I wonder, sometimes, if - had they been granted entry to her chamber - they might have saved her when the physicians could not."

"But they are physicians, William." They are far enough away from hedges and concealed corners for her to drop his title now, "What can a midwife know in comparison?"

"All women are tended by midwives in childbirth, Anne." He says, quietly, "Few are tended by physicians. I have learned from the experiences of my fellow husbands that a midwife has saved a woman before now that a physician could not. Thus I do not trust physicians with a woman in childbirth."

She discreetly rests her hand upon his, "You seem to have given much thought to this."

"In my grief, I looked for someone to hold to account, and the midwives were most determined to claim that they could have saved my wife had they not been dismissed. From what they told me - and others - I think it possible that they could have been right."

"Then we shall secure the most experienced midwives, and ensure that the physicians are kept at bay." She assures him, "I have lost babes, and I could not bear for my daughter to endure that pain." She pauses, then continues, "I have never forgotten them, William: never. My first babe was too young, and thus I knew not whether that child was boy or girl - but the second…he had the appearance of a male child, and thus I know that he was my son. Even now I think of him, and wonder what he might have become. Had I borne him at term, then I should never have feared for myself again - no matter now much Henry had learned to despise me, for he could not dismiss me without casting his son into bastardy."

"You think he would have dismissed you?"

"Of course he would." She answers, smiling a little bitterly, "I was not deaf to the rumours that circulated the Court, though I forced myself to stop my ears to them. He had found another woman to court, and wished to set her in my stead. Had he not fallen from his horse while attempting to impress her, then I have no doubt that I would have been dispatched to my father's estates in disgrace - or worse. I should have refused to go, and thus he would have looked to other means to remove me."

They lapse into companionable silence, and walk for a while between the flowerbeds as birds sing all about them. God…she has not felt such happiness in the presence of a man for longer than she can remember. Not since Henry…the _first_ Henry…

_No. I can never love again. My daughter would feel the sting of it…_

Or would she? She has spent the past five years withdrawing from the public eye, allowing Elizabeth to step forth and claim the love of the realm for her own. The churches offer up prayers for her Majesty the Queen and his Majesty the King, while 'Her Majesty the Queen Regent' is no longer mentioned. Oh, to find that lost companionship again: to salve that lonely ache that has followed her for nearly twenty years…

"Majesty," Lady Wiltshire's voice discreetly interrupts her train of thought, "Forgive my intrusion, but we must return to your apartments to prepare for her Majesty's thanksgiving."

God, yes. Today the formal proclamation has been made that the Queen is - at last - with child. The realm shall be alive with celebration, and there shall be the peal of bells across England.

If her happiness cannot be granted, then at least there is that.

* * *

"I am pleased to see you returned, Excellency Damião. You have been much missed." Richmond smiles, though his expression falters at the wafer with cream cheese that he is obliged to consume to end his meal.

"I am pleased to be back, my Lord; I believe you are now an Earl, are you not? My congratulations on your elevation." Damião answers, bowing politely, "And his Majesty has done his duty to his Queen and England shall - God willing - have a prince. I am delighted for her in her joy."

"I hope that you shall stay a while longer on this occasion. My Lord of Essex has greatly missed his chess games with you. He is not at court presently, but shall return within the week."

"Is he well?"

"He is indeed - though he is ageing, and has reached his three score years and ten. His mind is as sharp as it has ever been, and I think he shall delight in testing himself against your skill."

The Court has feasted extensively - a rare thing even in a realm that has prospered well for ten years or more - and the air remains fragrant with the aromas of roasted meats as people emerge from the banqueting hall to begin a long evening of dancing. Elizabeth has settled herself in a well cushioned chair beneath her canopy of estate, her stomach a little delicate, while Anna Conti sits with her and offers sniffs of a pomander studded with spices to disguise the smell of the supper that has just been consumed. Philip is nearby, dividing his time between discussions with his gentlemen and seeing to her wellbeing.

"They seem well matched." Damião observes, "I do not recall his Majesty's father being so solicitous to his wife's welfare as she carried his sons."

"We fear childbirth, Excellence." Richmond laughs, "The very suggestion of it sends us fleeing in search of refuge and ale. They seem to delight in one anothers' company, and that is a gift few couples are granted when they are bonded in marriage."

"Come now - it cannot be the ideal marriage, surely? They must have differences of opinion."

"Oh, believe me, they have. I am one of several Councillors to whom one or the other has turned when they have quarrelled in the last five years. It has been a hard won success in their marriage, but they have achieved common ground and are as happy as they were when first they met."

"I can see that pleases you."

Richmond nods, "It does. I am blessed with many children, but I have always seen her as another of my brood - as though a favoured niece, if you will. I think we all do. She has grown up amongst us, and we have taught her all that we can to bring her into her inheritance as England's queen. We could have fought amongst ourselves to control her; but my Lord of Essex considers the longer view. In supporting the Regent, we have prospered as we might never have done had we not, and England has prospered with us." He smiles, "It is greed, yes - but the _right_ sort of greed."

"There is no such thing, my Lord." Damião laughs.

Seated upon the dais, Anne watches her daughter's endurance of the near-inevitable nausea of early pregnancy with fond sympathy. As she endured it, so does Elizabeth. She is more fortunate, however, in that her husband is more concerned with her welfare than Henry ever was. He was certainly proud of her soon-to-be expanding belly, and boasted of his forthcoming sons with cheerful regularity; but the process of pregnancy was a province of the women, and his interest stopped at the boasting. England expects a prince, of course; and she would be a liar if she did not have hopes of the same - but she has endured the agony of losing a longed-for babe, and her greatest interest is that the child shall survive, and the mother too. Whether the child be boy or girl is of far lesser import - her disappointment in being denied a son lasted the few brief moments between that discovery, and Elizabeth being placed into her arms. Henry's had been far greater, of course, but even he had eventually fallen under the spell of his precious child.

All of London is celebrating, bells peal, firecrackers explode in the sky and wine flows from fountains. It shall be done again - and in greater quantities - once the child is born, but for now the knowledge that the Queen shall give her realm an heir is sufficient cause to celebrate.

She nods her head in acknowledgement as Northumberland approaches, "Your Grace."

"Majesty." He bows to her, "Forgive my intrusion, but I have news from Spain. It seems that the Emperor has been obliged to debase the _Real_ again in order to stave off bankruptcy. Furthermore, his health is faltering, and it is unlikely that he shall live for much longer. Thus his son, Philip, shall inherit the Kingdom of Spain."

"It is not for me to be told such things, your Grace." She reminds him, "It is for her Majesty now."

"I am aware of that, Majesty," He admits, "but I had no wish to bring politics into her time of celebration. I thought I should raise it with you this night, and then it can be discussed by the council upon the morrow. Your views are valuable, even if you have stepped aside."

"Thank you for your kindness, your Grace," Anne smiles, "I am grateful for the consideration. If her Majesty seeks my opinion, then I shall offer it - but if she does not, then I shall keep my peace."

His expression becomes uncomfortable, "I fear that some men of the Court see this as an opportunity to declare war upon Spain. His Imperial Majesty remains committed against the Turk, while Henry of France continues his father's policy of assaulting the Empire's border in hopes of grasping more lands for himself. Even the great treasure ships from the new world are unable to sustain the immense cost of these conflicts, and thus to open a third front would be all-but impossible. The younger men of the court are convinced that they could take Cadiz without effort, and are keen to do so. That her Majesty's foremost advisers are opposed to making war upon our neighbours is an affront to them, and they are convinced that her Majesty's inexperience has blinded her to the opportunities for glory, and that England could rule all of Europe if she could be convinced to remove the fearful cowards who advise her to hide within her own borders."

"I am not blind to their aspirations, your Grace," She admits, "and neither is her Majesty; but I am grateful for your news, for it shall most certainly inspire them to agitate for war, and her Majesty has no desire to consent to such a costly enterprise."

"We shall stand with her against any advice that presses her to do so, Majesty. Of that, you can be assured. War costs much, and earns little; we have gained much from the years of peace that have blessed the realm. When his Grace of Essex returns, we shall reconvene the Council and discuss the matter more fully."

"Thank you, your Grace." She nods as he bows and steps back. God above, shall it ever end? No sooner has joyful news graced the realm, than matters abroad emerge to bring strife and dissent to her daughter's table. Sighing to herself, she sits back in her chair; it is no longer for her to speak of such matters. That is for Elizabeth, and she can only hope that her daughter has the strength to hold those young bloods back.

* * *

As it did when he departed, the carriage rattles unpleasantly, but less brutally than it might have done without the chains to hold the box from capturing every bump in the cobbled street. Cromwell has done all that he can to set his affairs in order, signing a new draft of his will to take account of new children born to his wider family, and account of new properties that he has accumulated since the last testament that bore his signature. When the time comes, Gregory shall inherit the bulk of his properties, but ample bequests for his siblings' children serve as a visible demonstration of his success in life. However much longer he shall live, he shall do so secure in the knowledge that all is prepared for the day that he dies.

The people outside the confines of the vehicle seem even more delighted than they did when he travelled in the other direction, having enjoyed two days of celebration and leisure from work to share in the joy of their Queen. They are quite convinced that all shall be well, and none of them give thought to what is to happen once her Majesty enters confinement and prepares for her lying in.

There shall have to be a regent, of course; and it shall have to be Philip. He wears the Crown matrimonial, and has proclaimed himself an Englishman - but he remains a foreign prince, and there is no telling how her Majesty's subjects shall respond to a proclamation that he shall rule during the Queen's confinement. After the Dowager Queen has taken such care to withdraw from the public eye, they cannot return her to the fore - and certainly not when there is a husband to carry that burden. Ah well, such a test of his Subjects' views of him would have come sooner or later - better that it be sooner. Not that they have proclaimed as much, of course. He is the Lord Chancellor, and thus no decisions of such import are made without his knowledge.

His stewards are awaiting him as the carriage draws up near the gatehouse closest to his apartments, and he curses his infirmities as he is assisted to alight. God, to be free of the pain of his protesting limbs - but that freedom shall be provided when he is granted his eternal rest, and thus he endures while he is still of use in the mortal world.

Lord Richmond is awaiting him at the stop of the stairs that lead up to his rooms, and he smiles, cheerfully, "Ah, Richard. I trust that is a flagon of wine in your hand?"

"Most assuredly. We have celebrated heartily, and it seems most remiss that you have not shared in this remarkably excellent riesling wine."

Limping his way up the stairs with the assistance of his sticks and stewards, he falls into step with his friend, "If you have been useful for nothing else, then I can claim when we are before God that you were my most faithful provisioner of wine."

Richmond laughs, "Then I shall be well rewarded, and most content."

Their walk to the apartment is, of necessity, slow, but their conversation is convivial, "Their Majesties are to travel out upon a barge tomorrow to review her new Flagship.Mr Baker's designs have created a magnificent vessel, and he has asked that she be named _Ark Royal_ in her Majesty's honour. A second barge for her most prominent Officials shall follow, of course - though we are hopeful that the tides are sufficiently high to permit ease of boarding for those of us who are of lesser ability in terms of movement." Richmond cannot conceal his own awkward gait, or the need for a stick of his own, so his comment is hardly a jibe at Lord Cromwell's lack of mobility.

It is only once they are behind closed doors that the topic changes, "The atmosphere has changed at Court since her Majesty's announcement." Richmond advises, pouring out the wine, "The young men are keen upon war to a degree that has not been seen in many years - and they hope that, in her distraction, she can be prevailed upon to declare war upon Spain."

Cromwell frowns, "Upon what grounds? One cannot take up arms without a _casus belli_. Spain has not acted against us since the former Lady Mary attempted to invade - and even then they were not keen to support her. The Emperor was most careful to claim that she had acted upon her own volition, and to assure us that there would be no further activity to invade. That he cannot afford to is another consideration - and if we are not under threat from Spain, we have no reason to declare war."

"There is no benefit to us in doing so." Richmond agrees, "But the recent devaluation of the _real_ has done little to avert the threat of bankruptcy in Spain - particularly as the Emperor is still obliged to fight upon two fronts. How it is that he has not ceded for peace with Henry, God alone knows. The Turk is enough of a threat without a foolish squabble with France over who rules the Duchy of Milan. Why they cannot leave it in the hands of the Duke, I cannot imagine."

"What, respect one anothers' boundaries? Whatever next!" Cromwell scoffs, but then sighs a little, "I do not think that I have the strength to dissuade these young men from their bellicose aspirations, Richard. They have no respect for me, for I am old and becoming infirm - thus they look for my removal, so that they can persuade her Majesty that England's growing wealth and prominence should serve as sufficient grounds to assault our neighbours."

"They have not fought in wars." Richmond reminds him.

"They are fools. I _have_ fought in wars, and not as a commander. That I lived is entirely owing to fortune rather than any skill or ability upon my part. I could not abide to send the youth of England into combat without good reason, for it is they who shall do the dying."

"Well then." Richmond says, decisively, "As long as we have breath in our bodies, then we shall stand against demands to go to war, and advise their Majesties that to do so shall serve only to ruin England's prosperity and to no good purpose. Her Majesty can concentrate upon the welfare of her babe, and we shall concentrate upon the welfare of her Kingdom. Tomorrow, we shall discuss her Majesty's regency during her confinement, and we shall take care to ensure that none shall be permitted to enter into declarations of War without the agreement and consent of the full Privy Council, and her Majesty. Perhaps, then, we shall be safe from the horrors of conflict."

Cromwell nods, and sips at his wine. Only those who have actually fought in a war can possibly understand the troubles that would lie ahead for her Majesty's subjects if England were to seek combat. Better instead to concentrate upon the coming heir, and celebrate the continuation of the Tudor line. If that is the last thing that he is required to do upon this earth, then he shall do it.


	59. Arrangements for a Regency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - the days are starting to merge into one another and I keep losing track of time!

Elizabeth's eyes are flicking towards the plate of liver-paste upon wafers with a regularity that confirms that the cravings that seem to inevitably accompany pregnancy are most assuredly present with her. Despite the distraction, however, her thoughts remain firmly upon what must be done, "It is inevitable that his Majesty must rule while I am indisposed, Gentlemen. Nonetheless, we must ensure that his rule is confirmed both in law, and in the hearts of my people. It is essential that England is content that our decision is for their benefit as much as any other."

Cromwell nods, "Indeed, Majesty; when your late father was called to God, you were but a babe - and thus the Kingdom was at risk, for there was no one of age to follow him."

"No one but Mary." She reminds him, a little darkly.

"I was speaking in terms of the King's law and will, Majesty." He clarifies, with a slight smile.

She returns his smile, then reaches for a wafer, "I charge you as my Lord Chancellor to commence the legal works to confirm his Majesty as my Regent during my confinement." She does not mention that most dread outcome, of course; though her Councillors must. They can do that once she has retired to her apartments; particularly as the discussions are likely to be contentious in her absence. She is not blind to the opinions of the younger men around the Council table.

They move onto other matters, particularly additional reforms to the poor laws that shall improve the situation for those who have been injured while working, and require the attentions of physicians in order to recover. Cromwell smiles at their progress; he had wanted to bring in such measures even when Henry lived, but the noblemen at the council table refused to contribute so much as a groat of their considerable resources to fund them, and thus he was helpless to do so. Now, however, he is one of those noblemen, and is free to act for the benefit of the people as he could not be when he was nothing more than a common politician. He still _is_ that common politician, of course; but one who is also now an Earl - and even now he remains astounded at the difference a title can make.

With the ending of the meeting, he grapples with his walking sticks, but remains grateful for the assistance of both Wiltshire and Richmond as they abandon their papers to aid him to rise. Once upright, moving is a simple - if uncomfortable - business, but escaping a chair remains a tiresome activity that he cannot easily achieve without help. He is not unaware of the mildly scornful expressions upon the faces of the younger men at the Council table at his apparent infirmity, nor is he blind to the potential implications of such disdain. He has endured it for the entirety of his career, protected solely by the favour of the Crowned head for whom he has worked; but now the fear is that they shall attempt to persuade the Queen that he is too old to serve. Ah well; the body may be decrepit, but the mind is most assuredly not.

The three Lords make their slow, meandering way back to the smaller offices that serve the need for governance when not at Whitehall. Even if they were capable of hurrying - which nowadays they are not - their bond of companionship drives the slowness of their walk, as they gossip of matters of little consequence. Greater matters can wait until they are behind closed doors.

"Of all the things to crave: liver paste." Wiltshire grumbles, good-naturedly, "Even the smell of it turns my stomach. It seems that my royal niece has chosen to torment me in the midst of our deliberations."

Richmond snorts with amusement, "Better that than cream cheese, I assure you."

Cromwell's large office overlooks the great sweep of the river as it curves past Placentia, where more of those fine carracks designed by the King and Mr Baker are at anchor, awaiting the turn of the tide. One of the larger vessels, that great frigate _Ark Royal,_ is amongst them, as the last of her crew is assembled prior to final sea trials. Having been aboard, he is aware of the quality of its design and build; should any threaten England again, then she shall be first and foremost of the realm's defence.

"Thank God the people look to his Majesty for that ship." He murmurs, his eyes upon the bare masts that are yet to have their sails unfurled, "It has ever been my fear that they shall not accept him."

"Not all men do, Thomas." Wiltshire sighs, "There are some who despise him for a foreigner, and others for being a catholic. We are fortunate that they are in the minority, and few pay them any heed."

"I pray to God that they continue to do so." Richmond adds, "For the sternest test of that resolve is to come. Who amongst those who accept his Majesty do so upon the assumption that, in her Majesty's absence, he shall rule them? His one virtue is that he is not Spanish."

Easing himself into his great chair, Cromwell nods, "That is true. Ralph tells me that his men are aware of some in the City who are so keenly intent upon Luther's reforms that they feel even the Church of England as it is now does not comply with God's law and intent. The merest fleck of paint upon an altarpiece, or a shard of precious metal, is abhorrent to them; and that was assuredly not my intention when first I took steps to commence reform in England. Even in the tightest grip of my zeal, I knew that the realm could not sustain such a transition easily."

"Puritans." Richmond grunts, crossly, "I know that they despise me as a catholic, and believe that I grant funds only to other catholics." He has never concealed his retention of his original faith.

"They despise us all, Richard." Wiltshire smirks, "You for your catholic faith, Thomas and myself for not being sufficiently Lutheran; though they prefer the term 'Protestant'."

"Protestant?" Richmond snaps back, "Protesting against what? The Settlement? Surely they would not wish to send those of the old Faith to their deaths?"

"Oh, they would." Cromwell says, tiredly, "Men have ever looked to religion to justify their own prejudices. I am as guilty as any; the difference being that I know that it is there, and thus quell it."

"So much for religious settlement." Wiltshire sighs.

* * *

"My Lord of Lincoln!" Anne smiles, looking up from her embroidery, "And what brings you to my door?"

She deliberately ignores Jane Wiltshire's mild smirk.

Lincoln bows again, "Forgive me, Majesty; I thought it might be appropriate, given her Majesty's recently granted appointment."

"As my private secretary, you mean?"

"So I am told, Majesty."

They both ignore a small snort of laughter from Jane.

"Her Majesty is notable for her sense of humour; which appears most heightened in her current state of health." Anne's lips are twitching slightly with equal amusement. It could not be clearer to her - or to him - that Elizabeth has done so with only one purpose in mind. Their discretion might well have protected themselves from general Court gossip, but not from her attentive daughter. With few opportunities to be in one another's company, their friendship has been conducted at a level that assured their discretion could be so complete. Quite an achievement for a woman upon which Court gossip has been centred from the moment she arrived in its midst.

"Perhaps so, Majesty." Lincoln agrees, "But it appears that I am now obliged to be in your company considerably more frequently than was previously the case, and thus I am keen to be advised as to your requirements for my service to you."

"Service, my Lord?" she asks, deliberately coquettishly. God, she hasn't behaved so foolishly in years…

He reddens slightly, prompting her to laugh, "Come, my Lord; perhaps a turn about the Privy Garden. If you are to enter my service, it is appropriate that we discuss your duties, is it not?"

Rising, she takes his hand and follows him out into the Garden.

* * *

Cromwell squints, removes his eyeglasses, squints some more, and sighs, "Damnation, I cannot read this script; Daniel, could you?"

Nodding, the young man retrieves the paper.

"Allow me, Daniel." Limping slightly, Wiltshire approaches, "I believe you have been hard at work since dawn, have you not?"

The youth's eyes turn to Cromwell, who nods, permitting him to depart; "Forgive me: it seems even that a device intended to aid me is no longer of any efficacy. Daniel has set all down with such care - and yet I cannot review it without further putting him to trouble."

"You did warn me once not to grow old, Thomas." Wiltshire agrees, "I fear I was a fool and chose not to listen to your advice."

"Poor sight?"

"Gout."

"Then my sympathy becomes empathy, George; for I, too, am so afflicted." Cromwell sighs, "Here, read this to me; my eyes may be of little use, but my ears remain sharp, and my mind is more than capable of absorbing the text."

"It ought to be, given that you dictated it." Wiltshire laughs.

He is still making his way through the thickets of legalistic drafting when Cromwell's steward advises that the Duke of Northumberland is without. He has Richmond in tow, and before long, the reading has devolved into a comfortable discussion of the clauses, while Northumberland makes notes, being the youngest present, and therefore the quickest at writing things down. The steward busies himself pouring out cups of sack for them all.

"I think it wisest to declare the Regency to commence upon the ending of the mass prior to her Majesty's entry into confinement, which shall take place one month prior to the expected birth of her babe." Wiltshire muses, as Northumberland scribbles, "And to end upon her resumption of her royal duties following her Churching after the birth."

Richmond nods, "That shall quell speculation that the King shall step forth and replace her Majesty in all things. Who is arranging her women for her lying in?"

"Mistress Astley." Northumberland reports, "She is ageing, but hopes greatly to oversee the birth of a child to her royal Mistress before she retires."

"Retire?" Wiltshire asks, "God above, should that happen, the world shall end!"

They laugh; another of that initial gathering who is determined to die in service, it seems.

"I note that you have included clauses to which his Majesty shall swear in relation to the governance of the realm, my Lord," Northumberland continues, "Primarily pertaining to acts of war or disaster."

"Indeed." Cromwell agrees, "While his Majesty has not shown himself to be overly bellicose, he remains a young man brought up in the tradition of princes, and thus has been taught that war is a worthy enterprise; though it seems that he considers trade to be more sensible for all concerned. While I have no doubt that he would not take it upon himself to declare war upon our neighbours, it is best that he swear openly not to do so, thus stifling those upon the Council who might take it upon themselves to persuade him that he should. Force of arms should be deployed only if the realm is imperilled; and not in any other circumstance."

"He shall agree to that." Richmond adds, "In all the times that we have conversed, he has regularly espoused his horror of warfare, and its cruelties upon those who are present where battles are fought. It seems that his tutors spoke not only of the honour of war, but also the horror. Glory belongs to the men with wealth, not to the men who must follow them."

"Then they were as wise as we are." Wiltshire smiles, "And probably as old."

There is, of course, one remaining clause to consider; though none of the group has dared to speak of it. His expression reluctant, Cromwell beckons over his clerk, "Daniel, please bring that final document we discussed last night."

"Yes, my Lord."

They do not need to ask what it shall discuss; for it is upon all of their minds: what shall they do if Elizabeth dies in childbirth.

"I have laid out three scenarios, Gentlemen." Cromwell advises, as Daniel hands a large paper to Northumberland, "Should her Majesty be taken but a son survive her; should she be taken, but a daughter survive her; or - I pray to God we do not see such a thing - that both are lost."

The thought of such a calamity silences them all, but nonetheless he continues, "Should she bear a living son, then he shall be raised by his father and shall rule in time. Equally, should she bear a living daughter, we shall raise her as we raised her Majesty; though her care shall be seen to by her father rather than her mother. The greatest concern is the fate of the succession should there be no heir, and her Majesty is taken."

More silence, punctuated by the soft ticking of a clock nearby. Eventually, Richmond clears his throat, "If…if that should happen, Thomas, then to whom can we turn? There are no surviving heirs in England."

"There is one." Cromwell sighs, "And she does not reside within the walls of a Convent."

"The Scots girl?" Northumberland asks. Being part of the Council of the North, he is more aware of matters in those distant lands, "She is promised to France - and has been sent there; even were she the only remaining heir, England would never permit her to tie the realm to a foreign King."

"That's as may be," Richmond grunts, "but she is the last of our late King's blood, for her father was the child of his late Majesty's sister. Distant blood and half Guise - but blood nonetheless. None of his Majesty's line, either in blood or law, has claim to the crown; only a child would, and if there is no child, then this child Mary would be Queen."

Oh God…another Mary. Wedded this time to France, and half French, to boot. All that they have in their favour is that she has expressed no desire to claim England. Not yet, anyway.

"Do we make enquiries of a discreet nature through our Ambassador?" Wiltshire asks, a little tentatively, "I suspect it likely that speculation shall already be rife within the French Palaces, but nonetheless it may be wise to assess the intentions of the King, for she is betrothed to the Dauphin. Should she be required to ascend to the throne of England, it is likely that we shall find ourselves a province of France in less than a year."

"In which case, they shall finally get Calais back." Northumberland snorts.

His quip breaks the tension, and Cromwell sits back, "Forgive my morbid words, Gentlemen; it is better that we prepare for that which does not happen, than find ourselves caught unawares. It is a woman's work to secure the health of her Majesty in her confinement, and thus we must place our trust in Mistress Astley, and in her Majesty the Queen Dowager, for I have no doubt she shall involve herself entirely in the procedure. Thus I hold every hope that, when her lying in is upon her, her Majesty shall give England the first of many fine children, and secure the House of Tudor for many years to come."

Richmond lifts his near-empty cup of sack, "Amen to that."

* * *

The young man standing in the corner of the great watching chamber is dressed fashionably, and perhaps a little too richly for his station; but his face is unfamiliar, and handsome enough to draw some comment from the younger women present, and the somewhat envious attention of not a few men.

Like most of his age, he has no formal appointment, and is present largely through the auspices of his father. Bowing courteously to the men who acknowledge him, unleashing a devastating smile upon any young woman who glances his way, he circulates around the room, and soon finds himself alongside a party of similarly aged youths, sharing the contents of a flagon of wine and talking of noble pursuits.

Sir Thomas Percy is at the head of the small table, and he looks up, intrigued, "And who might you be?"

Unperturbed by the startling arrogance of a man who seems to believe that he is duty bound to monitor the activities of all others present in the chamber, the new arrival bows with that same courtesy, "I am Sir Henry Dudley; and to whom do I have the honour of addressing myself?"

The words are courteous; the tone of delivery, less so. Given the rudeness with which the speaker has been addressed, however, it serves to amuse Percy, who snorts with mirth, "Sir Thomas Percy, son of the Earl of Cumberland and first Baron Alnwick."

Dudley bows with deliberate irony, "Sir Henry Dudley, Earl of Warwick."

It is, of course, merely a courtesy title - all sons of the higher Lords are permitted to use the lesser titles for themselves, as Wiltshire had once done when his father held the Earldom. Nonetheless, Percy's expression hardens for a moment; the Dudleys have lordship over the Percys.

The new arrival smiles cheerfully, "Come now, Sir Thomas, do not mind me; I am not the master of my birth." He grasps a stool and sits down, "Truth be told, I should be a happier man to be free to engage in wenching, cards, drinking and warfare. Is that not our right as noblemen?"

"But for the old fools at the council table who are base cowards, that would be so." Percy snorts, "The Queen is guided by a filthy catholic, and a coddle of old greybeards who have created a realm of shopkeepers."

"Ah, our foreign master." Dudley nods, sagely, "I'm told that, when the Queen goes into confinement, he shall take England back to his father as a province of Portugal, and we shall soon be required to forget that we are English."

"That is entirely so!" Percy snaps back, with some heat; though he is not fool enough to speak loudly, "We are in the grasp of a foreigner - and a vile papist, to boot. Were I upon the council, then I would not stand for it; but what to be done when most of those who sit there fawn and grovel to a Portuguese rooster?"

"It is, to be sure, most troublesome; for my own father is amongst them." Dudley admits.

"As is mine." Percy agrees, "God's wounds - once he had the will to speak for England against the misplacement of the crown of England upon the head of a foreign papist; but now he is no better than those with whom he sits. It seems that he has been bought with an Earldom."

An earldom to which he was - essentially - entitled; but no matter.

"And what to be done once he is ruling us?" Dudley asks, _sotto voce_ , "For that time shall come when her Majesty goes into confinement. I have no doubt that he shall never give back what he has gained once it is in his possession."

"Then he must be removed." Percy hisses back, equally quietly, "England shall have an heir, and thus he shall no longer be needed. He, and his vile papist ways, shall be sent to hell where they belong. Once we have removed the old fools who have guided her so poorly, she shall see the truth of things, and thus all shall be well."

Dudley eyes him solemnly, "If that is so, then know that I am with you, willingly and determinedly. England has remained under the heel of the papists for too long, and even now they retain their grip upon us. Remove them, and their venom shall be expunged with them. Her Majesty should be freed from the grasp of her decrepit council, to lead the realm into a golden age of Godly purity."

Percy grasps his arm in a handshake, "You are welcome to our circle. We shall speak more anon."

Rising, Dudley nods, bows his head respectfully, and continues on his way.

The hall is busy with staff setting out the trestles for the afternoon meal, and he wanders his way through the midst of the throng to the screened passage, where his father awaits, "You were right, sir." He says, quietly, "There are plots afoot, though I think them to be naught but wild fancies at this time. His Grace Lord Percy shall be most dismayed to learn that his boy is at the head of it, if his loyalty to the Council now be true."

"Of that, I cannot be sure," Northumberland admits.

"Percy thinks it to be so."

"Then perhaps he _is_ loyal; though that shall bear watching. It is not _that_ long since he saw himself as entitled to more than his due."

"I shall be able to ascertain that anon; though I am concerned that this intended plot shall become known long before it grows to be a threat. Percy is hardly discreet - he accepted me into his conspiracy upon the basis of a single conversation. All I was obliged to do was speak in a manner that inclined to his view, and he shook my hand. Certainly, none rose to follow me as I made my way to the entrance to the hall; they remained at their table, sharing their wine and all but butting heads in their determination to speak quietly. How it is that none have already divined their intent, I cannot imagine. Their behaviour is all but a banner above their heads that reads 'Conspiracy'."

"As long as that remains the case, Henry, then all shall be well. Should one who is more attuned to the need to hide such sentiments join them, then they shall vanish from our scrutiny."

"Is that not why you have asked me to become one of them, Father?" Dudley smiles, "Have no fear; I shall keep careful watch. Forgive me if I am less than courteous over the coming weeks - it would be best for our plans if it appeared to all that we had quarrelled over some foolish matter and I am thus in a state of high dudgeon. Should there be any matter of concern, I shall ensure you are informed."

Northumberland nods, "As we intend for the King to be named Regent tomorrow, I suspect that such matters shall arise precipitately. Be ready, my son - but also be careful. You are the eyes of her Majesty now, and we cannot afford for those eyes to be plucked out."

"Fear not, Father. I shall watch with care - and, if God is with us, I shall be one of the leaders of the conspiracy before the month is out. Then we shall be prepared for whatever is planned." He leans forward slightly, "God save the Queen."

Northumberland smiles, "I shall advise my colleagues. God save the Queen."

* * *

It has been some years since Cromwell hosted the Council at his great house of Austin Friars; and indeed this is no meeting of the Council. The men present are the greybeards so despised by the younger Courtiers, but with so much at stake, the need to protect the realm has driven them to gather far from prying eyes at Placentia.

Seated at the head of the table, in his great chair, Cromwell surveys the men who have agreed to join him in this endeavour: Richmond, naturally; Wiltshire, of course; Lincoln, Northumberland, Sadleir, even doddering old Bedford has emerged from retirement to sit at their table - probably for the last time. Of them all, only Lincoln and Northumberland have not been a part of this group from the start.

"I must ask you to forgive me for placing you in this position, Gentlemen." He sighs, "Tomorrow's announcement is likely to draw out some elements at Court who shall be displeased at the discovery that his Majesty shall assume the throne during her Majesty's confinement. Until now, the agreed supremacy of her Majesty over her husband has been accepted - albeit reluctantly - by those who would otherwise consider the marriage to have sold England to Portugal; but we cannot guarantee that this shall continue from tomorrow. While her Majesty's confinement remains some months away, those who are less than content with the prospect of rule by King Philip might seize upon the opportunity to stand against it. My Lord of Northumberland has arranged for a young member of the Court to associate with those who are more overt in their discontent, in hopes of ensuring that plots are quelled, and the peace for which we have worked so hard is not overturned by unwarranted rebellion."

"Is this young man to be trusted?" Bedford asks, his voice a shadow of its once deep rumble.

"He is, my Lord." Northumberland advises, "He is my eldest son; and I would trust him with all that I have, and more. He is loyal to her Majesty, and thus shall report all to us where a threat is identified. Our concern that the louder youths are obscuring a quieter, more determined faction seems unfounded at this time, for all involved are youths. Those who are older have benefited from England's years of peace, and have no wish to see the realm founder upon the shoals of conflict. We have no desire to become like Spain; for all her glory, her coffers are empty, and the great treasure ships that come from Spain's acquisitions of the new world have failed to sate that gaping maw."

"And thus her poorest subjects suffer." Cromwell finishes, quietly. No one is surprised at that comment.

"Can we be sure that these young men shall attempt some form of rebellion?" Wiltshire asks, "It may be naught but youthful blustering. I was once so inclined - until maturity laid a hand upon my shoulder."

"Blustering is one thing, acting upon it is another." Richmond answers, "Though I think it would be foolhardy to act in such fashion as to encourage these youths to attempt some form of rebellion. If they do, however, I suspect that it shall be against us rather than her Majesty. For all their anger, it is not directed at the Queen, for she is young, and thus they consider her to be poorly advised, for they see her jewels and silks, not her skill and intelligence."

"Whereas we, who have guided her from childhood, see the latter in its fullest light." Bedford finishes.

"We must take care not to fall into the same trap, Gentlemen." Cromwell reminds the gathered men, "There are many amongst the younger courtiers who are as loyal as we; and we must not lose sight of it. Those who would conspire against us are the few, not the many. If we paint with too broad a brush, then the innocent shall be harmed along with the guilty. There was a time when such injustice occurred with painful frequency, and I have no wish for us to be no better than those who have gone before. If we do not learn from the errors of our forbears, then we shall be doomed to repeat them."

"Some might see this gathering in such a light, my Lord." Lincoln murmurs.

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, "It is my hope that we shall not be obliged to act. Instead, it is our concern that we be prepared for whatever shall come; be it a conspiracy, or be it nothing. With Mr Dudley's help, we may yet avert a plot, or the formation of a faction. His Majesty's retention of the old faith has served to grant her Majesty's catholic subjects a sense that they are not forgotten or of lesser importance than those who are of the new faith. As he promised, he has not pressed her Majesty to set aside her faith, nor has he made any demand to that effect."

"Is that why Mr Cranmer is not with us?" Richmond asks, suddenly. It is no secret that the Archbishop, for all his loyalty, remains wedded to the hope that the old faith shall wither and die away in time. The arrival of a catholic King has certainly upended those hopes for the time being - though he would prefer to travel far further along the path of reform than even Cromwell. Only those whom Richmond referred to in disparaging tones as 'Puritans' desire more.

"It is." Cromwell admits, "While his loyalty is unimpeachable, I fear that his conscience might be troubled by the pact that we must make. If those who cleave to the new faith place the realm at risk, then we must act against them. We should not forget that, when the former Queen of Sweden came against us, expecting England's catholics to rise up to welcome her, they did not. Furthermore, there was no suggestion that they would do so. It is for that reason that no measures have been taken against them; for they have proved their loyalty to the realm. I am well aware of my role in the creation of an England that has abjured the yoke of Rome; but if I must act to quell those who share my faith, then I shall do so. My loyalty is to the Crown of England, and the one who wears it. It has always been so, and shall be until the day I breathe my last. Thus I ask all present to join with me in signing a Bond of Association." He turns to one of his Stewards, who sets a large document before him, "If you do not wish to do so, then you are not obliged to sign, and need fear no repercussions in your refusal. I ask only that you read the document fully, and ensure that your choice is in keeping with your conscience."

_We the undersigned hereby swear in the name of God that we shall work to the protection of the Crown of England, and her Majesty the Queen, who wears it. We also swear loyalty and service to his Majesty the King Consort, and abjure all who might conspire, urge, or abet others to visit harm upon those who are the rightful rulers of the Realm._

_In doing so, we shall speak to no other of our pact, or of our work towards the ends that are implicit in its existence. Furthermore, where plots are uncovered, we pledge to speak of it only to her Majesty the Queen, his Majesty the King, or her Majesty the Queen Dowager if the former are indisposed._

The text already bears Cromwell's neat signature.

"There is nothing treasonous in this statement." Wiltshire says, reaching for the loaded quill to sign it, "I have no fear in setting my name upon it."

Richmond takes the document next, "I concur." He recharges the quill and sets his name down.

Lincoln reaches for the paper and quill, "Any act that places the realm in danger is treason, and thus I pledge myself to combat such iniquities."

Northumberland reaches for the paper, "I do not need to read it to know that it serves the interests of the realm first and foremost." His pause over the document is only to see where he should set his signature.

Sadleir says nothing, but instead reaches for the paper and quill with clear determination.

Finally Bedford lifts the text to his ageing eyes, "I concur with my Lords Wiltshire, Richmond and Lincoln." Carefully, he sets down a rather shaky signature alongside the others.

"My Lords, I would add a post script, but my eyesight betrays me." Cromwell advises, "I have signed it, but closer text is no longer within my gift."

Richmond immediately reaches for the quill, as his writing is the neatest of those who remain, "Dictate, Thomas. I shall set down your words."

"We sign this document in the hopes that it shall not be necessary for us to act upon it. God save the Queen."

The silence is punctuated by the scratching of the nib as Richmond sets the words down with slow care. Scattering pounce over the ink, he waits a moment, then shakes the powder free, "There. It is done."

They share a flagon of claret, though not in celebration. It seems that the Court shall never be free of factions - no matter how hard they wish it. Tomorrow, the King shall take an oath that shall govern his actions while he rules as Regent in the Queen's confinement; after which, God alone knows what shall follow.

* * *

It has been a long time since Anne has sat in the Privy Garden with just Jane and a dog for company. A small spaniel by the name of Persephone gambols amidst the spring blooms while bees and butterflies move from flower to flower; a gift from her nephew, young William Boleyn, recently returned from Cambridge, and now resident in the Inns of Court, where he looks towards learning more about the making and application of the law.

There was a time, long ago, when she had sat in a similar garden, beneath a pergola as rain began to fall, and wept in misery at the crumbling of her world. She had lost her son, and that loss had robbed her of the King's love; but fate has since granted her a nephew, restored her beloved siblings to her side and given her the joy of seeing her child achieve that for which she had always hoped. Perhaps sometimes what one wishes for is better forgotten - for what one gains in its stead is by far the better outcome.

A robin's song cascades across the garden, and she smiles at the sound of it, "It is most strange, Jane."

"What is strange?"

Today, for the first time, I noticed that Elizabeth's babe is starting to become evident; her stays have been let out to accommodate it. Until now, I _knew_ that she was with child - but it was knowledge, not belief. Before this year is out, I shall be a grandmother."

"I had not thought upon such things." Jane admits, "But, yes, you shall indeed."

"But that means that I am _old_." Anne complains, a little theatrically, "How can that have happened?"

"I believe it is an inevitable consequence of the passage of time, Anne." Jane smiles back, "Moreover, we are no longer able to conceal our grey locks beneath coifs and hoods. Not if we wish to be fashionable."

" _Always_ fashionable, Jane." Anne laughs, "I shall be fashionable even in my dotage."

The pair rise, and walk back to her apartments, arm in arm, "I think it is time that I change, Jane. His Majesty shall swear his oath as Regent in an hour, and to be fashionable at my age requires considerably more effort than it did when I was first at Court."

"I shall see to it, Anne. Do you still intend to wear your tawny velvet?"

"I do; though I may reconsider the jewels I was intending to wear with it; I think that the garnet rope may be more suitable than the topaz collar."

Still gossiping over jewels and cosmetics, the Dowager and her dearest friend leave the robin to its song.

* * *

"I wish that it did not have to be so, my beloved," the Queen sighs as she reviews the words of the oath that her husband shall shortly swear, "For I know, as do my Council, that such promises are unnecessary - for you made them upon your accession."

Philip takes the document, "If it shall serve to keep England at peace while you bring our son into the world, precious wife, then I shall speak the words upon it." Almost unconsciously, he reaches out to set his hand upon her velvet-covered belly, where the first signs of their child are becoming evident in the loosened stomacher, "Besides, you shall not enter confinement for months yet, and thus there is time to assure all of England that the realm shall be safe in my care, and restored to you upon your return to Court."

"I cannot fathom how it is that others do not see it."

"Nor I." He admits, sadly, "Though I continue to strive to show England that I am now an Englishman."

Behind them, Mistress Astley smiles, a little sadly. They are young - and love one another deeply. Of course Elizabeth cannot see that not all view her beloved husband as she does. In time, she shall understand.

"All is done, then." The Queen rises, setting the draft aside, "Let us greet the Court."

"Where I shall tell them that I am their friend. Again." Philip says, smiling at her.

From behind, Mistress Astley watches them as they walk, arm in arm, through the gallery to the watching chamber; empty of courtiers as they are in the hall beyond, awaiting them. As they pause, she hastens forward to straighten hems, adjust headwear and ensure that all is set to perfection. Michael, the King's steward, does likewise, to the amusement of his master, "There, Majesty. Perfection." Her eyes alight with pride, Mistress Astley stands aside as the doors are opened.

Elizabeth smiles, holding her husband's hand tightly as they enter the hall, where the Courtiers stand in throngs to await them. What must take place is too important to be concealed in the Presence Chamber; she is determined that all shall witness this, and be mindful of it.

Her Council are already in place, though again only Lord Cromwell is seated, in deference to his age, and trumpets rasp loudly from the gallery over the screens passage to announce the couple's arrival.

Cranmer stands nearby, though the great bible upon which Philip shall swear his oath is held by two young men of the Chapel Royal, as he equally lacks the strength these days to hold heavy books. His expression is not discontented, in spite of his lack of inclusion in the Bond of Association to which the most senior councillors have sworn - after all, it is impossible to be disappointed if one knows nothing of it. For all his ignorance of that choice, he seems pleased that his Queen, and the King who remains a papist, are to present the Kingdom with an heir. Better that than the danger of being a province of France, courtesy of the house of Valois. Perhaps Philip shall see the light in time.

"My lords," she begins, addressing her Councillors, "I thank you all for your efforts to bring about the arrangements for the rule of the realm while I am in confinement prior to the birth of England's first heir. It is my truest hope that I shall do my duty to England and bear the prince that shall continue the line of my Father's great House."

Even she does not mention the dread word 'princess'.

"Thus I call forth my lord, Philip of Wessex, to be appointed Regent from the time of my confinement until the completion of my Churching and return to the Court. For this time, he shall rule England in my stead, and I expect all of England to look to him as they look to me; as their anointed Prince."

There is no mistaking the steel in her tone as she makes her wishes known. Whether that shall be adhered to remains to be seen, but those who do not obey are likely to regret it once she is returned to Court. Only a fool makes fun of her temper.

The law that shall confirm Philip as Regent has already been made known to the populace: He shall have full authority to rule England, save for the declaration of war upon another realm, and the making of treaties. As no treaty is generally complete for signing in so short a time as a Queen's confinement, it is hardly unexpected. Defence of the realm, however, is within his authority, should one of their neighbours take advantage of the Queen's indisposition. As far as can be ascertained, none in the shires have objected to it.

Smiling at his wife as he joins her, Philip waits as the great bible of the Chapel is set before him, and the Archbishop limps on gouty feet to stand at his side, "If your Majesty would please take the oath."

He bows to Cranmer, "Willingly." Turning to another youth, who holds a neatly scribed document with the oath upon it, he straightens, sets his right hand upon the scripture, and reads aloud, "I, Philip, Duke of Wessex, King Consort of England, Ireland and France, do solemnly swear and declare to all here present that I shall assume the rights, privileges and responsibilities set upon me as Regent of England from the ending of the Queen's confinement Mass to the ending of her Churching.

"I also swear that, in that time, I shall rightly and truly govern England, advised by her Majesty's council. Equally, I shall not seek to make war upon any realm, nor to treat with any realm not already allied to England, or to bring about division and discord through the imposition of religious policy outside the Settlement of England. Furthermore, I swear that I shall defend the realm against any who might seek to make war upon us, and grant the Kingdom of England back to the hands of her anointed Prince upon her return to the Court. So help me God."

"God save the Queen!" one of the Guard captains shouts, startling everyone, but everyone settles again quickly, breaking into applause.

There: it is done. Seating herself upon her throne, her husband at her side, Elizabeth takes his hand again and watches as the Courtiers break up and begin to mingle. When she enters confinement, her husband shall rule England, and she shall be free to bear his son in peace.


End file.
